NEW    JERSEY 


.  <  s 
I 


Published  by  the 

NEW  JERSEY  SOCIETY 
OF  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Commodore  Byron  ^cOandless 


_l 


NEW  JERSEY 
AND  THE  AMERICAN   REVOLUTION 


A  SERIES  OF    BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  THE  NEW 

JERSEY  SOCIETY  OF  THE  SONS  OF  THE 

AMERICAN  REVOLUTION 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS  OF 
NEW  JERSEY 


CHOSEN  AND  ANNOTATED  BY 

WILLIAM  CLINTON  ARMSTRONG 


Copyright,   1906,  by 

NEW  JERSEY  SOCIETY  SONS  OF  THE 
AMERICAN  REVOLUTION 


PS 

NEW  JERSEY  SOCIETY  5~*/£ 

OF  THE 

SONS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION 


OFFICERS  AND   MANAGERS 
ELECTED  JANUARY,    1906 


OFFICERS. 

President Hon.  J.  Franklin  Fort,  East  Orange 

First    Vice-President Andrew   W.    Bray,     Newark 

Second  Vice-President Elias  O.  Doremus,  East  Orange 

Secretary James  Rankin  Mullikin,    Newark 

Treasurer Oscar  H.  Condit,  East  Orange 

Registrar John    Jackson    Hubbell,    Newark 

Historian William  C.  Armstrong,  New  Brunswick 

Chaplain Rev.    Eugene   Brooks,   Dover 


BOARD  OF  MANAGERS. 

Phillip    H.    Hoffman Morristown 

Franklin     Murphy,     jr., Newark 

Hon.  John   S.   Applegate Red  Bank 

Gen.    Joseph    W.    Congdon Paterson 

Rev.   Charles   L.   Pardee Orange 

James    Cotton    Holden Madison 

George  Rowland  Howe East  Orange 

Lovell   H.   Carr Elizabeth 

Edwin    A.    Rayner Newark 

Edward  S.  Atwater Elizabeth 

I. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 
PREFACE. 


The  following  poems  are  published  by  the  New  Jersey  Soc 
iety  of  the  Sons  of  the  American  Revolution,  under  the  supervision 
of  its  Historian,  Mr.  William  Clinton  Armstrong 

In  presenting  to  the  public  this  collection  of  the  Patriotic 
Poems  of  New  Jersey  it  may  not  be  considered  irrelevant  to 
present  a  brief  sketch  of  the  Society  under  whose  auspices  it  is 
published. 

The  New  Jersey  Society  of  the  Sons  of  the  American  Revo 
lution  was  formed  in  1889  by  a  number  of  the  citizens  of  this 
State  who  were  members  of  the  New  York  Society  of  the  Sons 
of  the  Revolution  but  who  were  not  permitted  by  that  organiza 
tion  to  form  a  separate  State  society.  This  Society  was  founded 
upon  a  liberal  construction  of  the  principles  of  the  American 
Revolution;  upon  a  basis  of  the  purest  patriotism  and  with  the 
highest  conception  of  the  duties  of  citizens  of  the  Republic. 
Its  requirements  demand  that  its  members  shall  be  lineal  de 
scendants  of  the  men  who  achieved  American  Independence. 
Its  organization  infringed  no  patent;  trespassed  upon  no  pre 
serves;  set  up  no  theory  of  States'  rights,  simply  sought  to  en 
large  the  scope  of  its  activities,  to  revive  the  memories  of  the 
heroic  past  and  to  perpetuate  those  memories  for  all  time. 

Soon  after  its  organization,  forecasting  the  future,  hoping 
to  bind  all  the  States  in  an  indissoluble  bond,  it  bent  its  efforts 
towards  the  establishment  of  a  National  Society,  in  which  effort 
it  was  eminently  successful;  and  delegates  from  thirty  States 
met  in  a  general  congress  at  Louisville,  Ky.,  in  April,  1890,  and 
with  a  unanimity  almost  unprecedented  laid  broad  and  deep 
the  foundations  of  our  Society 

As  the  New  Jersey  Society  is,  therefore,  the  parent  society 
of  the  now  National  Society,  it  seems  due  its  founders  that  this 
statement  should  be  incorporated  in  this  little  book  of  patriotic 
poems 

The  contemplation  of  the  heroic  self-sacrifice  of  our  ances 
tors  has  inspired  many  a  poet  to  describe  the  events  and  inci 
dents  of  the  Revolutionary  war  in  thrilling  verse  and  epic  poem. 
It  is  very  gratifying  to  be  able  to  present  in  this  anthology  so 
many  selections  relating  to  Trenton,  Assunpink,  Princeton, 
Monmouth  and  Springfield,  so  dear  to  the  memory  of  Jerseymen 
of  patriotic  ancestry. 

However,  it  is  very  far  from  being  our  wish  to  limit  the  use 
of  the  word  patriotic  to  military  events,  and  therefore  no  apology 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

is  needed  for  including  in  this  volume  many  poems  of  a  non- 
military  character. 

We  have  not  made  our  selections  along  narrow  lines;  it  has 
been  our  aim  to  cover  a  wide  range  of  topics.  Several  poems 
have  been  included  which  are  descriptive  of  the  natural  scenery 
of  our  State,  her  mountains  and  her  rivers,  her  sea  shore  and 
coast  waters.  And  as  to  intellectual  culture  the  praises  of 
Princeton  and  Rutgers,  both  founded  in  colonial  days  and  each 
a  pillar  of  strength  to  the  American  cause,  are  sung  in  Old  Nas 
sau  and  On  the  Banks  of  the  Old  Raritan ;  as  to  religious  devotion 
the  spirit  of  a  sturdy  faith  beams  forth  from  The  Old  Stone 
Church  and  Divident  Hill. 

Of  the  authors  represented  in  this  book,  four  were  Jersey- 
men  of  National  reputation  as  able  and  zealous  Revolutionary 
patriots:  Philip  Freneau  as  the  Poet  of  the  American  Revolu 
tion,  John  Witherspoon  and  Francis  Hopkinson  as  Signers  of 
the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  William  Livingston  as 
New  Jersey's  brilliant  war  governor.  Other  Jerseymen  ap 
pearing  here  as  writers  of  verse,  who  were  active  supporters  of 
the  same  good  cause,  are  John  Cooper  of  Woodbury,  a  member 
of  the  State  Senate,  Captain  James  Moore  of  Princeton,  Captain 
Moses  Guest  of  New  Brunswick,  and  Major  Richard  Howell, 
afterward  Governor  of  New  Jersey.  The  poem  Volunteer  Boys 
for  Old  Jersey's  Defense  was  written  by  a  soldier  in  the  Conti 
nental  army;  and  McFingal  is  an  extract  from  a  mock-epic 
which  did  effective  service  by  covering  the  Tories  with  ridicule. 
If  to  the  foregoing  we  add  the  five  anonymous  poems  which  we 
know  were  written  and  sung  during  the  war  itself,  we  have  in 
this  book  twenty-eight  poems  written  by  the  patriots  of  1776 
themselves. 

As  the  study  of  history  is  a  necessary  part  of  a  liberal  edu 
cation  the  Historian  has  endeavored  to  give  to  such  poems  as 
The  Battle  of  the  Kegs  and  The  British  Prison-Ships  a  historical 
setting  which  will  enable  even  girls  and  boys  to  appreciate  the 
wit  and  humor  of  the  one  and  the  fierce  denunciations  of  the 
other.  In  preparing  the  explanatory  notes  the  author  thereof 
has  had  in  mind  the  needs  of  young  people  who  are  already 
familiar  with  the  general  course  of  the  Revolution  and  its  prin 
cipal  events,  but  who  have  not  that  minute  knowledge  of  local 
detail  which  is  necessary  for  an  adequate  understanding  of  many 
of  the  poems.  In  order  that  there  may  be  no  possible  mis 
understanding  on  the  part  of  any  one  interested,  it  is  deemed 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


proper  to  state  that  the  compiler  is  alone  responsible  for  all  the 
notes  attached  to  the  various  poems. 

The  grateful  acknowledgments  of  the  Society  are  extended 
to  the  following  publishers  and  authors  for  permission  to  use 
copyrighted  matter:  to  Funk  and  Wagnalls  Company,  to  John 
Wiley  and  Sons,  to  Richard  G.  Badger  and  Company,  to  Harper 
and  Brothers,  to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  to  the  Century  Com 
pany,  to  the  Good  Roads  Magazine,  and  to  Houghton,  Mifflin 
and  Company,  the  only  authorized  publishers  of  the  works  of 
Bret  Harte  and  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

The  thanks  of  the  Society  are  due  also  to  Miss  Virginia  W. 
Cloud,  Miss  Eleanor  A.  Hunter,  Miss  Sarah  M.  Davy,  Mrs.  Ed 
ward  C.  Lyon,  Mrs.  Arthur  H.  Noll,  Mrs.  James  W.  Trimble, 
Mrs.  Frederic  Drummond,  Mrs.  Laura  E.  Richards,  Rev.  Joseph 
F.  Folsom,  Dr.  Louis  Bevier,  Dr.  Merrill  E.  Gates,  Howard  H. 
Fuller,  William  H.  Fischer,  Will  Carleton,  James  J.  Roche, 
Isaac  R.  Pennypacker,  Thomas  Fleming  Day,  Richard  W. 
Gilder,  Horace  Traubel,  literary  executor  of  Walt  Whitman, 
and  to  Charles  D.  Platt  for  seven  poems  from  his  Ballads  of 
New  Jersey  in  the  Revolution. 

The  poems  and  publications  of  the  parties  above-named, 
and  also  the  poems  of  persons  mentioned  elsewhere  in  this  book, 
are  protected  by  copyright;  and  all  rights  are  reserved  to  the 
respective  publishers  and  authors. 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Our    Gallant    State     (An    extract) Thomas    Ward  1 

New    Jersey Mary    C.    Gates  2 

The    Jerseyman's    Resolve Capt .    James    Moore  3 

Washington — A    Toast     Francis    Hopkinson  4 

Volunteer    Boys   for   Old   Jersey's    Defense Henry     Archer  4 

Our    Women     Anonymous  6 

The    Centenarian's    Story     Walt     Whitman  7 

The  Maryland  Battalion John  W .  Palmer  12 

Washington's  Victories  in   New  Jersey Anonymous  14 

The  Ballad  of  Daniel  Bray Joseph  Fulford  Folsom  15 

Ballad   of  Sweet  P Virginia  Woodward  Cloud  18 

The    Battle    of    Trenton Anonymous  20 

Washington     at     Trenton Sara    Wiley    Drummond  22 

The  Surprise  of  Trenton Henry  William  Herbert  23 

The   Battle  of  Trenton Henry  Kollock  How  30 

The     Retreat     of     Seventy-Six Thomas     Ward  37 

Assunpink  and   Princeton Thomas  Dunn  English  48 

The  Jersey  Road Good  Roads  Magazine  5 1 

Washington     at     Princeton Charles     D.     Platt  52 

Washington     at     Princeton Caroline     F.     Orne  53 

General    Mercer    at    Princeton Charles    D.    Platt.  56 

To  His  Excellency  General  Washington.  .  .  .Gov.  William  Livingston  56 

Go     On     Illustrious     Chief John     Wither  spoon  59 

Room    for    America Francis    Hopkinson  60 

Great    News    from  the    Jerseys Anonymous  61 

The    Birds,    the    Beasts   and   the    Bat Francis   Hopkinson  64 

Retreat    of    the    British    Army  (An  Extract)    .  .  .  .John    Branson  66 

The  Battle  of  Monmouth Thomas    Dunn   English  67 

The  Battle  of  Monmouth Sara  Wiley  Drummond  72 

The    Longest    Battle Will    Carleton  75 

Molly     Maguire    at     Monmouth William    Collins  80 

Sergeant    Molly James   Jeffrey    Roche  82 

Molly   Pitcher Laura  Elizabeth   Richards  84 

The    Spur    of    Monmouth Henry    Morford  86 

McFingal    (An    Extract) .John    Trumbull  89 

Light  Horse  Harry  at  Paulus  Hook Charles  D.  Platt  91 

Simcoe's    Raid    up    the    Raritan    Valley Capt.    Moses    Guest  93 

The     Martyr,    Joseph     Hedden,     Jr Thomas  Ward  94 

Parson    Caldwell    at    Springfield Charles    D.    Platt  98 

Caldwell    of    Springfield Bret    Harte  100 

The     Cow    Chace Maj.    John    Andre  101 

Sergeant  Champe Anonymous  116 

Captain     Josh     Huddy William    H.     Fisher  120 

Weehawken       Robert    Charles    Sands  122 

Aaron    Burr's    Wooing Edmund   Clarence    Stedman  123 

The    Raid    on    Ramapo Thomas    Dunn    English  125 

Jack    the     Regular Thomas    Dunn    English  127 

The    Falls    of    the    Passaic Washington   Irving  132 

Rock    of    the    Passaic    Falls Oliver   Crane  133 

Eagle  Rock Joseph  Fulford  Folsom  135 

A   Visit  to   Washington's   Headquarters D.   A.    W.  137 

An    Old    Mirror Y.     F.  138 

II. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

The   Washington    Headquarters Charles   D.    Platt  139 

Washington's    Headquarters Henry    Nehemiah    Dodge  142 

A    Call   on    Lady    Washington Charles    D.    Platt  144 

Fort    Nonsense Charles    D.    Platt  145 

Anna    Kitchel's    Protection Charles   D.    Platt  147 

Rhoda     Farrand Eleanor     A.     Hunter  1 48 

Divident    Hill Elizabeth    Clementine    Kinney  152 

Fuit  Ilium Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  1 54 

Governor  Paterson's  Barge  on  the  Raritan .  .  .  .Capt.  Moses  Guest  157 

Ode    to    the     Raritan John    Davis  158 

Rutgers    College     Hymn Louis    Bevier,    Jr.  159 

On  the  Banks  of  the  Old  Raritan Howard  Newton  Fuller  1 60 

The    Towers   of    Princeton Robert    Bridges  161 

Old     Nassau Harlan    Page    Peck  162 

The    Builders    (An    Extract) Henry    VanDyke  163 

Battle    Monument Richard    Watson    Gilder  165 

To    Delia    Francis    Hopkisnon  166 

Delia,    Pride    of    Borden's    Hill Francis  Hopkinson  167 

The  Delaware Oliver  Crane  168 

The     Delaware    River Thomas    Ward  169 

The    Battle    of    the    Kegs Francis    Hopkinson  173 

Fancies    at    Navesink Walt    Whitman 

Had   I    the   Choice 177 

Proudly  the   Flood   Comes   In 178 

Neversink     Philip     Freneau  178 

The  Coasters   Thomas  Fleming  Day  179 

On     Barnegat    Shoals William    H.     Fischer  181 

Patroling    Barnegat Walt    Whitman  182 

The  Men  of  the  Jersey  Shore William  H.   Fischer  183 

To    the     Dog    Sancho Phillip    Freneau  184 

Mon mouth    Ten    Years    after    the    Battle Henry    Morford  185 

Gloucester    Spring Nathaniel   Evans  187 

Hannah    Ladd's    Pass John   Cooper  189 

Ballad  of  the. British   Ship  Delight Lucy  Weeks   Trimble  190 

The  Old  Stone   Church Francis  DeHaes  Janvier  191 

The   Country    Printer Philip   Freneau  193 

Revolutionary   Scenes Sara  M.   Davy  197 

The     Jersey     Blues Isaac     R.     Pennypacker  200 

The    British    Prison-Ships   Philip    Freneau  201 

Captain    Jones's    Invitation Philip    Freneau  222 

Sir    Harry's    Invitation Philip    Freneau  224 

New    Roof Francis    Hopkinson  225 

Welcome     to     Washington Gov.     Richard    Howtil  227 

The     Bower ' Capt.     Moses     Guest  228 

Jersey     Blue Gov.     Richard    Howell  230 

Ode  to  New  Jersey Anonymous  232 

Our    Whole    Country      (An  Extract) ....  Henry    Nehemiah    Dodge  233 

BIOGRAPHICAL     NOTICES 235 

INDEX     TO     AUTHORS..  246 


III. 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


DESCRIPTIVE  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Philip   Freneau,    Poet   of  the   American   Revolution Frontispiece. 

Freneau  never  allowed  his  portrait  to  be  painted,  although 
often  urged  to  do  so  by  his  friends,  and  although  sittings 
were  solicited  by  such  artists  as  Jarvisand  Peale.  The  picture 
of  him  presented  herewith  is  the  one  sketched  by  Frederick 
Halpin,  an  English  portrait  painter  who  settled  in  New 
York  City  in  1842.  This  picture  by  Halpin  was  pronounced 
by  Freneau's  children  to  be  a  satisfactory  likeness. 

Lord  Stirling,  of  Basking  Ridge,  N.  J 13 

Major-General  in  the  Continental  Army. 

The  original  portrait,  which  is  in  the  possession  of  Dr.  Robert 

Watts  of  New  York  City,  was  painted  by  Benjamin  West. 

Washington  Crossing  the  Delaware 32 

The  original,  which  is  now  in  the  Boston  Museum  of  Fine 
Arts  was  painted  by  Thomas  Sully.  The  etching  was  by 
W.  Humphrey  and  the  engraving  by  C.  G.  Lang.  Another 
picture  entirely  different  but  bearing  the  same  name,  and 
which  is  now  in  the  Kunsthalle,  Bremen,  was  painted  in 
1850  by  Emanuel  Leutze. 

Washington  at  the  Second  Battle  of  Trenton 49 

The  original  which  is  now  in  the  gallery  at  Yale  University 
was  painted  in  1792  by  Col.  John  Trumbull  at  the  request 
of  the  city  of  Charlestown,  S.  C.  It  represents  Washington 
at  sunset  on  January  2,  1777,  looking  across  Assunpink 
creek  and  inspecting  the  camp  of  Cornwallis.  Every  part 
of  Washington's  dress  and  even  the  trappings  of  his  horse 
are  accurate  in  every  detail,  having  been  drawn  by  the 
artist  from  the  original  objects. 

Molly  Pitcher  at  the  Battle  of  Monmouth 67 

This  is  from  the  picture  by  D.  M.  Carter,  engraved  by  John 
Rogers.  The  original  is  in  St.  Louis,  Mo. 

Washington's     Headquarters     at     Morristown 140 

With  pictures  of  General  and  Lady  Washington. 

This  mansion,  which  ranks  next  to  Mt.  Vernon  in  historic 
interest,    was   built   by   Colonel   Jacob   Ford,    Jr.,    in    1774 
and  was  occupied  by  Washington  and  his  military  family 
from  December,  1779,  to  June,   1780.     The  pictures  of  the 
Washingtons    are    from    engravings  after  the  Athenaeum 
portraits    by     Gilbert    Stuart;    the    originals  are  in  the 
Boston   Museum;  there  are  many  replicas  and    variants. 

Trenton    Battle    Monument 165 

This  is  a  column  of  white  granite,  150  feet  high,  in  the 
Roman-Doric  style.  The  cornerstone  was  laid  December 
26,  1891,  and  the  monument  was  dedicated  October  19,  1893 

Francis  Hopkinson,  of  Bordentown,  N.  J 175 

A    Signer    of    the    Declaration    of    Independence. 

This  is  a  detail  from  a  picture  painted  in  1785  by  Robert 
Edge  Pine.  The  original  painting  shows  Hopkinson  seated 
at  a  table  in  a  library,  with  books  on  the  table  and  a  column 
at  the  back. 

IV. 


DESCRIPTIVE  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

The  Jersey,  a  British  Prison-Ship 208 

Inserted  through  the  courtesy  of  Mr.  Philip  H.  Hoffman, 
of  Morristown,  N.  J.  The  original  was  drawn  by  Captain 
Thomas  Dring,  of  Providence,  R.  I.,  a  patriotic  seaman, 
who  was  a  prisoner  on  the  Jersey  and  who  wrote  the 
Recollections  of  the  Jersey  Prison-Ship. 


IIV. 


PHILIP   FRENEAU 

Of  Monmouth  County,  New  Jersey 

The  Poet  of  the  American  Revolution 


OUR  GALLANT  STATE. 


O  ye  her  sons,  keep  fresh  her  story  ! 

Swell  with  her  precious  memories 
Carve  in  brass  her  victories  ! 

Shout  for  her  fields  of  glory  ! 


TRENTON  !     All  hail  forever  ! 

First  dawning  of  the  joyful  day 

That  swept  the  clouds  of  night  away. 


PRINCETON  !     All  hail  forever  ! 
Where  dying  Mercer  pierced  the  line 
And  broke  the  charm  of  discipline. 


MONMOUTH  !     All  hail  forever  ! 
That  made  despairing  foes  recoil 
Disgusted  with  the  ungracious  soil. 


Such  are  the  jewels  rare 

The  State  upon  the  front  shall  wear 

Throughout  all  time. 

Thomas  Ward. 

[1] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


NEW  JERSEY. 

Ye  Thirteen  Stars  of  Light, 
Hung  in  our  stormy  night 

Of  blood  and  war, 
Still  through  uncounted  years 
Burn  on,  undying  spheres  ! 
Shine  far,  amid  thy  peers, 

New  Jersey's  Star  ! 

'Twas  on  thy  central  field, 
Sure  victory  first  was  sealed: 

Here  turned  war's  tide  ! 
Ever  live  Trenton's  name  ! 
Princeton's  and  Monmouth's  fame 
Written  in  words  of  flame 

Deathless  abide  ! 

For  us  our  God  hath  wrought; 
For  us  thy  heroes  fought; 

So  are  we  free  ! 
Third  on  the  ringing  roll, 
Thy  hand  endorsed  the  scroll, 
Pledge  of  a  nation's  soul 

To  Liberty  ! 

Our  Century's  vast  increase 
Rounds  its  full  orb  in  peace: 

To  God  be  praise  ! 
Increase    in    every    part 
Trade  in  each  port  and  mart, 
Our  learning  and  our  art, 

Be  His  always  ! 

From  elemental  strife, 
From  our  great  nation's  life, 

Deep,  restless,  broad, 
Blend  Thou  a  mighty  chord 
Of  myriad  music,  Lord, 
Ascending  in  one  word: — 

That  word  be,  God  ! 

Master  of  men  and  states, 
Builder  Whose  will  creates 
Nations  and  powers  ! 

[21 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

The  pillars  Thou  dost  place, 
With  lily-work  of  grace 
Crown  Thou,  that  all  the  praise 
Thine  be,  not  ours. 

Mary  C.  Gates. 

Third  on  the  Scroll  of  Fame. — The  first  three  States  to  ratify  the 
Constitution  of  the  United  States  were  Delaware,  Pennsylvania  and  New 
Jersey;  they  ratified  it  during  December,  1787,  in  the  order  named  and 
on  these  days  respectively, — the  seventh,  the  twelfth  and  the  eighteenth. 

This  poem  was  read  in  Kirkpatrick  chapel,  Rutgers  college,  at  a 
meeting  of  the  State  Historical  Society  in  celebration  of  the  centennial 
of  New  Jersey's  ratification  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 


THE  JERSEYMAN'S  RESOLVE. 

A  Marching  Chant  of  the  New  Jersey  Militia 
1776. 

I  love  with  all  my  heart 
The  independent  part; 

To  obey  the  Parliament 

My  conscience  won't  consent. 

I  never  can  abide 

To  fight  on  England's  side; 

I  pray  that  God  may  bless 
The  great  and  grand  Congress; 

This  is  my  mind  and  heart, 
Tho  none  should  take  my  part. 

The  man  that's  called  a  Tory, 
To  plague,  it  is  my  glory ; 

For  righteous  is  the  cause, 
To  keep  the  Congress  laws. 

To  fight  against  the  king 
Bright  liberty  will  bring. 

Lord  North  and  England's  king, 
I  hope  that  they  will  swing. 


Of  this  opinion  I 
Resolve  to  live  and  die. 


Capt.  James  Moore. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

WASHINGTON. 
A  TOAST 

Written  in  1777. 

'Tis  Washington's  health — fill  a  bumper  around, 

For  he  is  our  glory  and  pride ; 
Our  arms  shall  in  battle  with  conquest  be  crowned, 

Whilst  virtue  and  he's'on  our  side. 

'Tis  Washington's  health — and  cannons  should  roar, 
And  trumpets  the  truth  should  proclaim ; 

There  can  not  be  found,  search  the  world  all  o'er, 
His  equal  in  virtue  and  fame. 

'Tis  Washington's  health— our  hero  to  bless 

May  heaven  look  graciously  down! 
Oh!  long  may  he  live  our  hearts  to  possess, 

And  freedom  still  call  him  her  own! 

Francis  Hopkinson. 


VOLUNTEER  BOYS  FOR  OLD  JERSEY'S  DEFENSE. 
A  TOAST 

Hence  with  the  lover  who  sighs  o'er  his  wine, 

Chloes  and  Phillises  toasting, 
Hence  with  the  slave  who  will  whimper  and  whine, 
Of  ardor  and  constancy  boasting. 
Hence  with  love's  joys, 
Follies  and  noise, 
The  toast  that  I  give  is  the  Volunteer  Boys. 

Nobles  and  beauties  and  such  common  toasts, 

Those  who  admire  may  drink,  sir; 
Fill  up  the  glass  to  the  volunteer  hosts, 

Who  never  from  danger  will  shrink,  sir. 
Let  mirth  appear, 
Every  heart  cheer, 
The  toast  that  I  give  is  the  brave  volunteer. 

Here's  to  the  squire  who  goes  to  parade, 
Here's  to  the  citizen  soldier; 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

Here's  to  the  merchant  who  fights  for  his  trade 
Whom  danger  increasing  makes  bolder. 

Let  mirth  appear, 

Union  is  here, 
The  toast  that  I  give  is  the  brave  volunteer. 

Here's  to  the  lawyer  who,  leaving  the  bar, 

Hastens  where  honor  doth  lead,  sir, 
Changing  the  gown  for  th^  ensigns  of  war, 
The  cause  of  his  country  to  plead,  sir. 
Freedom  appears, 
Every  heart  cheers, 
And  calls  for  the  health  of  the  law  volunteers. 

Here's  to  the  soldier  who,  battered  in  wars 

And  safe  to  his  farm-house  retired, 
When  called  by  his  country,  ne'er  thinks  of  his  scars, 
With  ardor  to  join  us  inspired. 
Bright  fame  appears, 
Trophies  uprear, 
To  veteran  chiefs  who  became  volunteers. 

Here's  to  the  farmer  who  dares  to  advance 

To  harvests  of  honor  with  pleasure; 
Who,  with  a  slave  the  most  skillful  in  France, 
A  sword  for  his  country  would  measure . 
Hence  with  cold  fear, 
Heroes  rise  here; 
The  ploughman  is  changed  to  the  stout  volunteer. 

Here's  to  the  peer,  first  in  senate  and  field, 
Whose  actions  to  titles  add  grace,  sir; 
Whose  spirit  undaunted  would  never  yet  yield 
To  a  foe,  to  a  pension  or  place,  sir. 
Gratitude  here 
Toasts  to  the  peer 
Who  adds  to  his  titles,  The  Brave  Volunteer. 

Thus  the  bold  bands  for  old  Jersey's  defence, 

The  muse  hath  with  rapture  reviewed,  sir; 
With  our  Volunteer  Boys  as  our  verses  commence, 
With  our  Volunteers  Boys  they  conclude,  sir 
Discord  or  noise 
Ne'er  damp  our  joys, 
But  Health  and  Success  to  the  Volunteer  Boys. 

Henry  Archer. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


OUR    WOMEN. 

All  hail!  superior  sex,  exalted  fair, 
Mirrors  of  virtue,  Heaven's  peculiar  care; 
Formed  to  enspirit  and  ennoble  man, 
The  immortal  finish  of  Creation's  plan! 

Accept  the  tribute  of  our  warmest  praise 
The  soldier's  blessing  and  the  patriot's  bays! 
For  fame's  first  plaudit,  we  no  more  contest 
Constrained  to  own  it  decks  the  female  breast 

While  partial  prejudice  is  quite  disarmed, 
And  e'en  pale  envy  with  encomiums  charmed, 
Freedom  no  more  shall  droop  her  languid  head, 
Nor  dream  supine  on  sloth's  lethargic  bed, 

No  more  sit  weeping  o'er  the  veteran  band — 
Those  virtuous,  brave  protectors  of  her  land — 
Who,  nobly  daring,  stem  despotic  sway 
And  live  the  patriot  wonders  of  the  day. 

For  lo!  these  sons  her  glorious  work  review, 
Cheered  by  such  gifts  and  smiles  and  prayers  from  youl 
More  precious  treasure  in  the  soldier's  eye 
Than  all  the  wealth  Potosi's  mines  supply. 

And  now  ye  sister  angels  of  each  state, 
Their  honest  bosoms  glow  with  joy  elate, 
Their  gallant  hearts  with  gratitude  expand 
And  trebly  feel  the  bounties  of  your  hand. 

And  winged  for  you  their  benedictions  rise, 
Warm  from  the  soul  and  grateful  to  the  skies! 
Nor  theirs  alone.     The  historian-patriots,  fired, 
Shall  bless  the  generous  virtue  you've  inspired, 

Invent  new  epithet  to  warm  their  page 
And  bid  you  live  admired  from  age  to  age, 
With  sweet  applauses  dwell  on  every  name, 
Endear  your  memories  and  embalm  your  fame. 

And  thus  the  future  bards  shall  soar  sublime 
And  waft  you  glorious  down  the  stream  of  time; 

[6] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

The  breeze  of  panegyric  fill  each  sail, 

And  plaudits  pure  perfume  the  increasing  gale. 

Then  freedom's  ensign  thus  inscribed  shall  wave, 
The  female  patriots  who  their  country  save  ! 
Till  time's  abyss,  absorbed  in  heavenly  lays, 
Shall  flow  in  your  eternity  of  praise. 

Anonymous. 

During  the  early  part  of  the  year  1780,  the  condition  of  the  Contin 
ental  army  was  especially  deplorable.  The  soldiers  were  weak  from  want 
of  food;  they  were  without  meat  for  days  at  a  time,  without  sufficient 
clothing,  without  medicine,  without  forage,  without  money,  without 
credit,  and  sometimes  almost  without  hope. 

It  is  to  the  honor  of  the  women  of  the  Revolution  that  they  de 
vised  a  systematic  plan  for  raising  funds  for  the  relief  of  the  soldiers; 
and  they  carried  out  their  plan  with  great  vigor.  A  public  meeting  for 
organization  was  held  by  the  ladies  of  New  Jersey,  at  Trenton,  on  the 
Fourth  of  July,  1780;  a  subscription  was  opened,  and  a  committee  was 
appointed  to  correspond  with  influential  ladies  in  each  of  the  thirteen 
counties  of  the  State.  Among  those  who  were  active  in  this  good  work 
in  our  State  may  be  named  Miss  Cadwalader,  Mrs.  Cox,  Mrs.  Dickenson, 
Mrs.  Forman,  Mrs.  George  Morgan,  Mrs.  William  Paterson,  Mrs.  Jonathan 
Deare  (Frances  Phillips),  Mrs.  John  Neilson  (Catherine  Voorhees)  ,  Mrs. 
Richard  Stockton  (Annis  Boudinot),  the  two  Mrs.  Dey  of  Preakness, 
and  Lady  Stirling  (Susan  Livingston)  of  Baskingridge. 

The  sentiments  of  this  song,  which  was  composed  at  that  time  and 
sung  by  the  soldiers  in  camp,  are  therefore  not  the  empty  flatterings  of  a 
drawing-room;  but  they  voice  the  heartfelt  thanks  of  the  soldiers  them 
selves  to  all  those  ladies  throughout  the  thirteen  colonies  who  had  "illus 
trated  the  nobility  of  their  sentiments  and  the  virtue  of  their  patriotism 
by  generous  subscriptions  to  the  suffering  soldiers  of  the  American 
army". 


THE  CENTENARIAN'S  STORY. 

Volunteerj)f|1861-2,  (at  Washington  Park,  Brooklyn   assisting 
the  Centenarian). 

Give  me  your  hand  old  Revolutionary, 

The  hill-top  is  nigh,  but  a  few  steps,  (make  room  gentlemen), 

Up  the  path  you  have  followed  me  well,  spite  of  your  hundred 

and  extra  years, 

You  can  walk  old  man,  though  your  eyes  are  almost  done, 
Your  faculties  serve  you,  and  presently  I  must  have  them  serve 

me. 

Rest,  while  I  tell  what  the  crowd  around  us  means, 
On  the  plain  below  recruits  are  drilling  and  exercising, 
There  is  the  camp,  one  regiment  departs  to-morrow, 

171 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Do  you  hear  the  officers  giving  their  orders? 
Do  you  hear  the  clank  of  the  muskets? 

Why  what  comes  over  you  now  old  man  ? 

Why  do  you  tremble  and  clutch  my  hand  so  convulsively  ? 

The  troops  are  but  drilling,  they  are  yet  surrounded  with  smiles, 

Around  them  at  hand  the  well-drest  friends  and  the  women, 

While  splendid  and  warm  the  afternoon  sun  shines  down, 

Green  the  midsummer  verdure  and  fresh  blows  the  dallying 

breeze, 
O'er  proud  and  peaceful  cities  and  arm  of  the  sea  between. 

But  drill  and  parade  are  over,  they  march  back  to  quarters, 
Only  hear  that  approval  of  hands!     hear  what  a  clapping  ! 

As  wending  the  crowds  now  part  and  disperse — but  we  old  man, 
Not  for  nothing  have  I  brought  you  hither — we  must  remain, 
You  to  speak  in  your  turn,  and  I  to  listen  and  tell 


The  Centenarian. 

When  I  clutched  your  hand  it  was  not  with  terror, 
But  suddenly  pouring  about  me  here  on  every  side, 
And  below  there  where  the  boys  were  drilling,  and  up  the 

slopes  they  ran. 
And  where  the  tents  are  pitched,  and  wherever  you  see  south  and 

south-east  and  south-west, 

Over  hills,  across  lowlands,  and  in  the  skirts  of  woods, 
And  along  the  shores,  in  mire  (now  filled  over)  came  again  and 

suddenly  raged. 

As  eighty-five  years  a-gone  no  mere  parade  receiv'd  with  ap 
plause  of  friends, 
But  a  battle  which  I  took  part  in  myself-  aye  long  ago  as  it  is, 

I  took  part  in  it, 
Walking  then  this  hilltop,  this  same  ground 

Aye,  this  is  the  ground. 

My  blind  eyes  even  as  I  speak  behold  it  re-peopled  from  graves, 

The  years  recede,  pavements  and  stately  houses  disappear, 

Rude  forts  appear  again,  the  old  hoop'd  guns  are  mounted, 

I  see  the  lines  of  rais'd  earth  stretching  from  river  to  bay, 

I  mark  the  vista  of  waters,  I  mark  the  uplands  and  slopes; 

Here  we  lay  encamp'd,  it  was  at  this  time  in  summer  also. 

[8] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


As  I  talk  I  remember  it  all,  I  remember  the  Declaration, 

It  was  read  here,  the  whole  army  paraded,  it  was  read  to  us  here, 

By  his  staff  surrounded  the  General  stood  in  the  middle,  he  held 

up  his  unsheath'd  sword, 
It  glittered  in  the  sun  in  full  sight  of  the  army. 

'Twas  a  bold  act  then — the  English  war-ships  had  just  arrived, 
We  could  watch  down  the  lower  bay  where  they  lay  at  anchor, 
And  the  transports  swarming  with  soldiers. 

A  few  more  days  and  they  landed,  and  then  the  battle. 

Twenty  thousand  were  brought  against  us, 
A  veteran  force  furnished  with  good  artillery. 

I  tell  you  not  now  the  whole  of  the  battle, 

But  one  brigade  early  in  the  forenoon  order'd  forward  to  engage 

the  red-coats, 

Of  that  brigade  I  tell,  and  how  steadily  it  march'd, 
And  how  long  and  well  it  stood  confronting  death. 

Who   do  you  think  that  was  marching  steadily,  sternly  confront 
ing  death  ? 

It  was  the  brigade  of  the  youngest  men,  two  thousand  strong, 
Rais'd  in  Virginia  and  Maryland,  and  most  of  them  known  per 
sonally  to  the  General. 

Jauntily  forward  they  went  with  quick  step  toward  Gowanus' 

waters, 
Till  of  a  sudden  unlook'd  for  by  defiles  through  the  woods,  gain'd 

at  night, 
The  British  advancing,  rounding  in  from  the  east,  fiercely  playing 

their  guns, 
That  brigade  of  the  youngest  was  cut  off  and  at  the  enemy's 

mercy. 

The  General  watched  them  from  this  hill, 

They  made  repeated  desperate  attempts  to  burst  their  environ 

ment, 
Then  drew  close  together,  very  compact,  their  flag  flying  in  the 

middle, 
But  O  from  the  hills  how  the  cannon  were  thinning  and  thinning 

them! 

[9] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


It  sickens  me  yet,  that  slaughter! 

I  saw  the  moisture  gather  in  drops  on  the  face  of  the  General. 

I  saw  how  he  wrung  his  hands  in  anguish. 

Meanwhile  the  British  manoeuvr'd  to  draw  us  out  for  a  pitch'd 

battle, 
But  we  dared  not  trust  the  chances  of  a  pitch'd  battle. 

We  fought  the  fight  in  detachments, 

Sallying  forth  we  fought  at  several  points,  but  in  each  the  luck 

was  against  us, 
Our  foe  advancing,  steadily  getting  the  best  of  it,  push'd  us  back 

to  the  works  on  this  hill, 
Till  we  turn'd  menacing  here,  and  then  he  left  us. 

That  was  the  going  out  of  the  brigade  of  the  youngest  men,  two 

thousand  strong, 

Few  return'd,  nearly  all  remain  in  Brooklyn. 
That  and  here  my  General's  first  battle, 
No  women  looking  on  nor  sunshine  to  bask  in,  it  did  not  conclude 

with  applause, 
Nobody  clapp'd  hands  here  then. 

But  in  darkness  in  mist  on  the  ground  under  a  chill  rain, 

Wearied  that  night  we  lay  foil'd  and  sullen, 

While  scornfully  laugh 'd  many  an  arrogant  lord  off  against  us 

encamp 'd, 
Quite  within  hearing,  feasting,  clinking  wineglasses  together  over 

their  victory. 

So  dull  and  damp  and  another  day, 
But  the  night  of  that,  mist  lifting,  rain  ceasing, 
Silent  as  a  ghost  while  they  thought  they  were  sure  of  him,  my 
General  retreated. 

Hsaw  him  at  the  river-side, 

Down  by  the  ferry  lit  by  torches,  hastening  the  embarcation  ; 

My  General  waited  till  the  soldiers  and  wounded  were  all  pass'd 

over. 
And  then,  (it  was  just  ere  sunrise,)  these  eyes  rested  on  him  for 

the  last  time. 
H| 

Every  one  else  seem'd  fill'd  with  gloom, 
Many  no  doubt  thought  of  capitulation.^] 

[10] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


But  when  my  General  pass'd  me, 

As  he  stood  in  his  boat  and  look'd  towards  the  coming  sun, 

I  saw  something  different  from  capitulation. 

Terminus. 

Enough,  the  Centenarian's  story  ends, 
The  two,  the  past  and  present,  have  interchanged, 
I  myself  as  connecter,  as  chansonnier  of  a  great  future,  am  now 
speaking. 

And  is  this  the  ground  Washington  trod? 

And  these  waters  I  listlessly  daily  cross,  are  these  the  waters  he 

cross'd, 
As  resolute  in  defeat  as  other  generals  in  their  oroudest  triumphs? 

I  must  copy  the  story,  and  send  it  eastward  and  westward, 

I  must  preserve  that  look  as  it  beam'd  on  yon  rivers  of  Brooklyn. 

See — as  the  annual  round  returns  the  phantoms  return, 

It  is  the  27th  of  August  and  the  British  have  landed, 

The  battle  begins  and  goes  against  us,  behold  through  the  smoke 

Washington's  face, 
The  brigade  of  Virginia  and  Maryland  have  march'd  forth  to 

intercept  the  enemy, 
They  are  cut  off,  murderous  artillery  from  the  hills  plays  upon 

them, 

Rank  after  rank  falls,  while  over  them  silently  droops  the  flag, 
Baptized  that  day  in  many  a  young  man's  bloody  wounds, 
In  death,  defeat,  and  sisters',  mothers',  tears. 

Ah,  hills  and  slopes  of  Brooklyn!  I  perceive  that  you  are  more 

valuable  than  your  owners  supposed; 
In  the  midst  of  you  stands  an  encampment  very  old, 
Stands  forever  the  camp  of  that  dead  brigade. 

Walt  Whitman. 

From  Leaves  of  Grass  by  permission  of  Horace  Traubel;  copy 
right  1891. 

The  Americans  were  defeated  at  the  battle  of  Long  Island  on  Au 
gust  27,  1776,  by  an  army  of  British  veterans  under  Generals  Howe  and 
Cornwallis. 

Half  the  Americans  were  busy  fortifying  Brooklyn  heights;  the 
other  half  had  been  thrown  forward  and  were  holding  the  line  of  wooded 
hills  which  extended  from  Greenwood  cemetery  eastward.  The  left  wing 

[11] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


was  commanded  by  Sullivan;  and  the  right  wing,  by  Lord  Stirling,  New 
Jersey's  highest  officer  and  only  major-general  in.  the  Continental  army. 

Howe  landed  his  army  at  Gravesend,  encamped  for  several  days 
at  Flatbush,  and  then  began  operations  before  daylight  on  the  morning 
of  the  27th,  turning  the  Amencan  left  and  capturing  Sullivan  himself. 
He  then  pushed  Cornwallis  forward  to  trap  the  American  right  by  cutting 
off  Stirling's  retreat. 

Howe's  battle  was  planned  with  skill  and  executed  with  vigor  and 
success.  From  the  British  point  of  view,  the  only  hitch  in  the  program 
of  the  entire  day's  work  was  caused  by  the  daring  and  magnificent  charges 
of  the  Maryland  Battalion  under  Lord  Stirling  who  held  open  the  narrow 
road  at  the  Cortelyou  house  and  thus  enabled  hundreds  of  the  retreating 
Americans  to  escape. 

Washington  had  been  in  New  York  City,  but  he  crossed  the  East 
river  and  reached  the  American  line  of  fortifications  in  time  to  see  Lord 
Stirling  lead  the  gallant  Marylanders  in  charge  after  charge  against  over 
whelming  odds,  sacrificing  themselves  in  order  to  prevent  the  capture  of 
their  comrades. 

Washington  wrung  his  hands  in  anguish,  and  exclaimed,  "My  God, 
what  brave  fellows  must  I  this  day  lose." 


THE  MARYLAND  BATTALION. 

In  the  battle  of  Long  Island,  August  27,   1776. 

From  For  Charlie's  Sake  by  permission  of  Funk  &  Wagnalls  Company; 

Copyright  1901. 

This  stirring  ballad  is  a  death-song.  The  author  takes  us  in  imagi 
nation  to  the  first  battle  fought  after  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
to  the  first  field  where  American  soldiers  in  regular  line  of  battle  ever 
charged  a  foe  on  open  ground.  He  pictures  to  us  the  crisis  of  the  battle, 
the  very  moment  when  duty  required  a  selected  band  to  advance  to  cer 
tain  death  in  order  to  hold  the  road  open  for  the  escape  of  their  comrades. 
Altho  it  was  a  day  of  disaster,  the  memory  of  the  battle  of  Long  Island  is, 
brightened  and  endeared  by  the  courage,  discipline  and  self-sacrifice  of 
Maryland's  Four  Hundred,  led  in  person  by  Major-General  Lord  Stirling 
of  New  Jersey. 

The  poet  writes  this  song  as  though  it  came  from  the  lips  of  these- 
young  heroes  as  they  align  their  ranks  for  the  first  desperate  charge. 
They  recall  their  homes  and  mothers  and  sweethearts;  they  describe  the 
booming  of  guns  heard  from  distant  parts  of  the  battlefield,  and  tell  how 
they  had  held  at  bay  all  the  morning  the  cohorts  of  Grant;  and  then  they 
turn  to  their  general,  "O  Stirling,  good  Stirling,"  and  announce  their 
readiness  for  the  work  assigned  them;  and  then  as  the  trumpet  sounds, 
"Tralara,"  they  salute  the  nag,  send  a  last  greeting  to  the  loved  ones  ajt. 
home  ,and  move  forward  to  action. 

Spruce  Macaronis,  and  pretty  to  see, 
Tidy  and  dapper  and  gallant  were  we; 
Blooded,  fine  gentleman,  proper  and  tall; 
Bold  in  a  fox-hunt  and  gay  at  a  ball; 
Prancing  soldados  so  martial  and  bluff, 
Billets  for  bullets,  in  scarlet  and  buff—* 

[12] 


LORD  STIRLING 

Of  Somerset  County,  New  Jersey 

Major  General  in  the  Continental  Army 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


But  our  cockades  were  clasped  with  a  mother's  low  prayer, 
And  the  sweethearts  that  braided  the  sword-knots  were  fair. 
There  was  grummer  of  drums  humming  hoarse  in  the  hills. 
And  the  bugle  sang  fanfaron  down  by  the  mills; 
By  Flatbush  the  bagpipes  were  droning  amain, 
And  keen  cracked  the  rifles  in  Martense's  lane; 
For  the  Hessians  were  flecking  the  hedges  with  red, 
And  the  grenadiers'  tramp  marked  the  roll  of  the  dead. 

Three  to  one,  flank  and  rear,  flashed  the  files  of  St.  George, 

The  fierce  gleam  of  their  steel  as  the  glow  of  a  forge. 

The  brutal  boom-boom  of  their  swart  cannoneers 

Was  sweet  music  compared  with  the  taunt  of  their  cheers 

For  the  brunt  of  their  onset,  our  crippled  array, 

And  the  light  of  God's  leading  gone  out  in  the  fray! 

Oh,  the  rout  on  the  left  and  the  tug  on  the  right! 

The  mad  plunge  of  the  charge  and  the  wreck  of  the  flight! 

When  the  cohorts  of  'Grant  held  stout  Stirling  at  strain, 

And  the  mongrels  of  Hesse  went  tearing  the  slain; 

When  at  Freeke's  Mill  the  flumes  and  the  sluices  ran  red, 

And  the  dead  choked  the  dyke  and  the  marsh  choked  the  dead! 

"O  Stirling,  good  Stirling!     How  long  must  we  wait? 
Shall  the  shout  of  your  trumpet  unlease  us  too  late? 
Have  you  never  a  dash  for  brave  Mordecai  Gist, 
With  his  heart  in  his  throat,  and  his  blade  in  his  fist? 
Are  we  good  for  no  more  than  to  prance  in  a  ball, 
When  the  drums  beat  the  charge  and  the  clarions  call?" 

Tralara!     Tralara!     Now  praise  we  the  Lord 

For  the  clang  of  His  call  and  the  flash  of  His  sword! 

Tralara!     Tralara!     Now  forward  to  die; 

For  the  banner,  hurrah!     and  for  sweethearts,  good-bye! 

"Four  hundred  wild  lads!"     Maybe  so.     I'll  be  bound 

'Twill  be  easy  to  count  us,  face  up,  on  the  ground. 

If  we  hold  the  road  open,  tho'  Death  take  the  toll, 

We'll  be  missed  on  parade  when  the  States  call  the  roll — 

When  the  flags  meet  in  peace  and  the  guns  are  at  rest, 

And  fair  freedom  is  singing  Sweet  Home  in  the  West. 

John  Williamson  Palmer:, 


The  British  general,  James  Grant,  starting  from  Gravesend  and 
marching  northward  along  the  edge  of  New  York  Bay,  encountered  the 
American  pickets  about  daylight  at  the  house  of  Judge  Martense,  and  driv 
ing  them  back  found  the  American  army  under  Lord  Stirling  drawn  up 
across  the  road.  The  two  armies  faced  each  other  for  two  hours,  fighting 

[13] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


at  long  range.  Meanwhile  Cornwallis  by  a  flank  march  had  gained  the 
rear  of  the  Americans  and  was  firing  his  cannon  as  a  signal  to  let  Grant 
know  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  close  in  on  Stirling  who  was  thus  trapped 
between  the  two  British  divisions. 

Stirling  himself  heard  the  signal  and  knew  exactly  what  it  meant, 
so  he  hurried  his  troops  back  toward  Brooklyn;  but  he  was  too  late,  for 
Cornwallis'  skirmishers  had  already  reached  the  road.  Stirling  promptly 
placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the  Maryland  troops  to  open  the  road  and 
to  keep  it  open  until  the  main  body  of  his  command  could  escape  by  wad 
ing  the  marsh  below  the  dike  at  Freeke's  mill  or  by  walking  on  the  dike 
itself. 

Stirling  charged  Cornwallis'  grenadiers  and  drove  back  the  head 
of  the  column;  he  charged  again,  forcing  the  enemy  to  take  refuge  in  the 
Cortleyou  house  and  even  driving  the  gunners  from  the  battery  in  the 
dooryard.  Cornwallis  hurried  forward  re-enforcements.  Three  times 
more  did  the  gallant  Marylanders  rally  and  charge;  but  at  last,  hemmed 
in  on  all  sides  and  overpowered  by  numbers  but  rejoicing  that  their  com 
rades  had  escaped,  those  who  were  alive  surrendered.  They  had  held  the 
road  open;  but  two  hundred  and  fifty  of  them  had  died  on  the  field,  and 
the  others  including  Lord  Stirling  himself  became  prisoners  of  war.  It 
was  this  costly  sacrifice  that  saved  the  right  wing  of  the  Continental 
army  from  destruction;  and  their  heroic  devotion  is  commemorated  by 
a  stately  monument  in  Prospect  Park,  Brooklyn,  bearing  this  inscripton 

In  Honor  of 

MARYLAND'S  FOUR  HUNDRED 
Who  on  this  battlefield  on 

August  27,    1776. 
Saved     the     American     Army. 


WASHINGTON'S  VICTORIES  IN  NEW  JERSEY. 

When  British  troops  first  landed  here, 

With  Howe  commander  o'er  them, 
They  thought  they'd  make  us  quake  with  fear, 

And  carry  all  before  them; 
With  thirty  thousand  men  or  more, 

And  she  without  assistance, 
America  must  needs  give  o'er, 

And  make  no  more  resistance. 

But  Washington,  her  glorious  son, 

Of  British  hosts  the  terror, 
Soon,  by  repeated  overthrows. 

Convinced  them  of  their  error; 
Let  Princeton  and  let  Trenton  tell, 

What  gallant  deeds  he's  done,  sir, 
And  Monmouth's  plain  where  hundreds  fell, 

And  thousands  more  have  run,  sir. 

Anonymous. 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

THE  BALLAD  OF  DANIEL  BRAY. 

December,  1776. 

The  Delaware,  with  stately  sweep, 

Flows  seaward  as  when  armies  fought: 
But  they  who  struck  for  freedom  sleep 

Beneath  the  soil  their  valor  bought. 
At  Rosemont,  inland,  Daniel  Bray, 

In  lonely  grave,  with  rest  hard  won, 
Waits  for  his  country's  voice  to  say: 

"He  brought  the  boats  to  Washington." 

At  Trenton  lay  the  Hessian  host, 

Pluming  their  pride  with  gay  parade; 
They  thought  the  freeman's  cause  was  lost 

And  hoped  his  last  brave  stand  was  made; 
But  safe  on  Pennsylvania's  shore, 

The  master  patriot  aimed  the  blow 
Which  thenceforth  in  the  nation's  lore 

Would    mark    oppression's    overthrow. 

To  Captain  Bray  on  Kingwood  height 

A  horseman  sped  by  field  and  brake, 
Till  on  his  door,  at  dead  of  night, 

He  knocked,  and  bade  the  soldier  wakes 
A  hasty  mount,  a  quick  farewell, 

And  then  miles  down  the  frozen  track, 
Like  musket  shots  the  hoof-beats  fell, 

While  Mary  slept  and  dreamed  him  back. 

Down  Stony  Batter  Hill  they  sped, 

Across  Duck's  Flat;  then  up  the  slopes 
To  Rittenhouse   (where  sleep  the  dead) 

Their  coursers  climbed  with  steadier  lopes ; 
The  ten-mile  creek  is  left  behind, 

Gilboa's  slant  is  swiftly  run; 
At  Coryell's  the  inn  they  find, 

And  waiting  them,  great  Washington. 

That  hour  Bray  heard  his  general  say: 

"Seize  all  the  boats  from  Easton  down, 
And  guard  them  safe,  by  night  and  day, 
Until  we  cross  to  take  the  town." 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  echoes  of  a  noble  voice 

Hied  with  him  from  that  meeting  place, 
Praise  made  the  soldier's  heart  rejoice, 

And  spurred  his  zeal  to  quicker  pace 

Ere  gray  dawn  paled  o'er  Hunterdon, 

He  ranged  a  circuit  twelve  miles  wide, 
For  brave  Gearheart  of  Flemington, 

And  Johnes  of  Amwell  countryside. 
To  foil  the  Tory's  cunningness, 

With  squads  in  hunter's  garb  uncouth, 
They  pierced  the  Jersey  wilderness, 

From  Ringoes  to  the  Lehigh's  mouth. 

Then  downward  on  the  broader  stream, 

They  drove  by  night  their  project  bold, 
With  but  the  planet's  wintry  gleam 

To  cheer  them  in  the  bitter  cold. 
December's  slashing  wind  cut  keen 

O'er  ice-cakes  massed  with  frosty  grip; 
And  longside,  in  the  dusky  sheen, 

They  watched  the  chill  black  waters  slip. 

Beneath  the  river's  gloomy  banks, 

And  where  the  friendly  ferry  plied, 
They  seized  the  craft  with  scanty  thanks, 

And  launched  them  on  the  swirling  tide: 
Through  eddies  deep,  and  rapids  swift, 

They  guided  sure  their  precious  fleet; 
Minding  the  rock  and  treacherous  rift, 

And  creeks  where  angry  currents  meet. 

No  hostile  shot  disturbed  the  verge, 

Where  ghostly  woods  loomed  drear  and  dark 
No  voice,  except  the  hound's  sad  dirge, 

Or,  far  away,  the  wolf's  gruff  bark; 
But  sometimes  'cross  the  distant  slope, 

A  farmhouse  shed  its  candle  ray, 
And  warmed  the  wand'rer's  heart  with  hope 

Of  fireside  joys  and  freedom's  day. 

The  river's  speech  is  low  and  weird, 

It  bears  no  tales  of  deeds  long  past ; 

But  Bray,  ere  morning  light  appeared, 
His  boats  by  Malta  Isle  made  fast; 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


And  on  that  famous  Christmas  night, 
They  bore  the  heroes  o'er  the  tide, 

Who  broke  the  spell  of  Britain's  might, 
And  flung  the  Hessian  mob  aside. 

The  Delaware  shall  ever  flow 

Through  sacred  soil,  forever  free. 

And  every  free-born  child  shall  know 
The  tale  of  Trenton's  victory: 

And  till  the  stars  shall  cease  to  shed 
Their  light  o'er  hilly  Hunterdon, 

Of  Daniel  Bray  it  shall  be  said: 

"He  brought  the  boats  to  Washington." 

Joseph   Fulford   Folsom. 


Daniel  Bray  was  a  captain  in  the  Second  regiment  of  the  Hunter 
don  county  militia.  He  was  born  at  Baptisttown,  Hunterdon  county, 
N.  J.,  October  12,  1751,  and  died  at  Kingwood,  in  the  same  county, 
December  5,  1809. 

Washington  abandoned  Jersey  in  the  early  part  of  December, 
1776,  the  last  man  of  the  rear-guard  under  Lord  Stirling  reaching  the 
Pennsylvania  shore  on  December  8th,  about  midnight.  To  prevent  the 
passage  of  the  British,  all  boats  had  been  removed  from  the  Jersey  shore; 
but  Washington  soon  had  far  deeper  plans  in  mind;  he  wished  a  little 
fleet  of  boats  collected  so  that  he  and  his  army  might  recross  the  river  at 
will. 

Accordingly  he  summoned  Captain  Bray  and  directed  him  to 
gather  secretly  all  the  river-craft  that  could  be  found  on  the  Delaware 
from  Phillipsburg  downward. 

Associated  with  Capt.  Bray  in  this  undertaking  were  Capt.  Jacob 
Gearhart  and  Adj.  Thomas  Johnes;  these  three  met  at  Baptisttown,  about 
three  miles  inland,  to  make  their  plans  and  engage  the  assistance  of  others. 
They  worked  at  night  disguised  as  hunters;  and  no  easy  task  it  was  to 
find  the  boats  hidden  away  in  creeks  by  their  owners,  to  cut  them  out  of 
the  ice  and  to  keep  them  from  being  swamped  in  the  rapids  while  taking 
them  down  the  icy  current  in  the  darkness. 

Capt.  Bray  and  his  companions  worked  at  this  for  ten  nights  and 
succeeded  in  collecting  about  twenty-five  craft,  including  fourteen  Dur 
ham  boats,  four  scows  and  several  rafts  for  the  transportation  of  cannon; 
all  these  they  hid  behind  Malta,  a  heavily-wooded  island  opposite  Lam 
bert  ville. 

Thus  were  the  boats  gathered  for  Washington's  famous  crossing. 

[171 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

BALLAD  OF  SWEET  P. 

Christmas  night,  1776. 

Mistress  Penelope  Penwick,  she 

Called  by  her  father,  "My  Sweet  P," 

Painted  by  Peale,  she  won  renown 

In  a  clinging,  short- waisted  satin  gown; 

A  red  rose  held  by  her  finger  tips, 

And  a  smile  held  back  from  her  roguish  lips 

William  Penwick,  the  jolly  wight, 
In  clouds  of  smoke,  night  after  night, 
Would  tell  a  tale  in  delighted  pride, 
To  cronies  who  came  from  far  and  wide, 
Always  ending, — with   candle  he, — 
"And  this  is  the  picture  of  my  Sweet  P  ! 

The  tale? — "Twas  how  Sweet  P  did  chance 

To  give  to  the  British  a  Christmas  dance. 

Penwick's  house  an  outpost  stood, 

Flanked  by  the  ferry  and  banked  by  the  wood ; 

Hessian  and  British  quartered  there 

Swarmed  through  chamber  and  hall  and  stair. 

Fires  ablaze  and  candles  bright, 

Soldier  and  officer  feasted  that  night. 

The  enemy?     Safe,  with  a  river  between, 

Black  and  deadly  and  fierce  and  keen, 

A  river  of  ice  and  a  blinding  storm, — • 

So  they  made  them  merry  and  kept  them  warm. 

But  while  they  mirth  and  roistering  made 

Up  in  her  dormer  window  stayed 

Mistress   Penelope   Penwick   apart, 

With  fearful  thought,  and  sorrowful  heart. 

Night  after  night  her  candle's  gleam 

Had  sent  through  the -dark  its  hopeful  beam ; 

But  the  nights  they  came  and  passed  again 

With  never  a  sign  from  her  countrymen; 

For  where  beat  a  heart  so  brave,  so  bold, 

As  to  baffle  the  river's  bulwark  cold? 

Penelope's  eyes  and  her  candle's  light 

Were  mocked  by  the  storm  that  Christmas  night. 

[18] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


But  barken  !     Suddenly  a  missile  stung 

And  shattered  her  casement  pane,  and  rung 

At  her  feet  !     'Twas  a  word  from  the  storm  outside, 

She  opened  her  dormer  window  wide, 

A  wind-swept  figure  halted  below, 

The  ferryman,  old  and  bent  and  slow, 

And  a  murmur  rose  upward,  only  one, 

Thrilling    and    powerful, — 

"  Washington  ! 

With  jest  and  laughter  and  candles  bright, 
It  was  two  by  the  stairway  clock  that  night 
When  Penelope  Penwick  tripped  her  down, 
Dressed  in  the  short-waisted  satin  gown; 
With  a  red  rose  cut  from  her  potted  bush; — 
There  fell  on  the  rollicking  crowd  a  hush. 

And  she  stood  in  the  soldiers'  midst,  1  ween, 

The  daintiest  thing  they  e'er  had  seen  ! 

She  swept  their  gaze  with  her  eyes  most  sweet, 

And  patted  her  little  slippered  feet; 
'"Tis  Christmas  night,  sirs,"  quoth  Sweet  P, 
"And  I  wish  to  dance  ! — Will  you  dance  with  me?" 

O  but  they  cheered  !     Ran  to  and  fro, 
Each  for  the  honor  bowing  low; 
But  with  smile  and  charm  and  witching  grace 
She  chose  him  pranked  with  officer's  lace, 
And  shining  buttons,  and  dangling  sword, — 
I'll  warrant  he  stnitted  him  proud  as  a  lord  ! 

Doffed  was  enmity,  donned  was  glee, — 

O  she  was  charming,  that  Sweet  P  ! 

When  it  was  over  and  blood  aflame, 

Came  the  eager  cry,  "A  game  !"     "A  game  !" 
"We'll  play  at  forfeits,"  Penelope  cried, 
"If  one  holds  aught  in  his  love  and  pride 

"Let  him  lay  it  down  at  my  feet  in  turn, 
And  a  fine  from  me  shall  he  straightway  earn  !" 
What  held  each  one  in  his  love  and  pride? — 
Quick  flew  a  hand  unto  every  side, 
Each  man  had  his  sword  and  nothing  more, 
And  the  swords  they  clanged  in  a  heap  on  the  floor. 


[19] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Standing  there  in  her  satin  gown, 
With  candlelight  on  her  yellow  crown, 
And  at  her  feet  was  a  bank  of  steel, — 
I'll  wager  the  look  was  caught  by  Peale  ! 
Penelope  held  her  rose  on  high, 
"I  fine  each  one  for  a  leaf  to  try  !" 

She  plucked  the  petals  and  blew  them  out, 
A  rain  of  red  they  fluttered  about 
Over  the  floor  and  through  the  air, — 
Rushed  the  officers  here  and  there, 
When  hark  !     A  cry  !     The  door  burst  in  ! 
"The  enemy  !" 

Tumult,  terror  and  din  ! 

Flew  a  hand  unto  every  side, — 
Swords? — Penelope,  arms  thrown  wide, 
Leaped  that  heap  of  steel  before, 
The  swords  behind  her  upon  the  floor, 
And  faced  her  countrymen  staunch  and  bold, 
Who  dared  a  river  of  death  and  cold, 
Who  swept  them  down  on  a  rollicking  horde 
And  found  they  never  a  man  with  a  sword  ! 

And    so  it  happened, — but  not  by  chance — 

That  in  '76  was  given  a  dance, 

By  a  witch  with  a  rose  and  a  satin  gown, 

Painted  in   Philadelphia   town, 

Mistress  Penelope   Pen  wick,   she 

Called  by  her  father  "My  Sweet  P." 

Virginia  Woodward  Cloud. 

From  A  Reed  by  the  River  by  permission  of  the  author; 
Copyright  1902  by  Richard  G.  Badger. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  TRENTON. 

December  26,  1776. 

On  Christmas  day  in  seventy-six, 

Our  ragged  troops  with  bayonets  fixed, 

For  Trenton  marched  away, 
The  Delaware  see  !     the  boats  below  ! 
The  light  obscured  by  hail  and  snow  ! 

But  no  signs  of  dismay. 


[20] 


J 
w 
Q 


g 

t/5 
(« 

O 

U 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Our  object  was  the  Hessian  band 
That  dared  invade  fair  freedom's  land, 

And  quarter  in  that  place. 
Great  Washington  he  led  us  on, 
Whose  streaming  flag,  in  storm  or  sun, 

Had  never  known  disgrace. 

In  silent  march  we  passed  the  night, 
Each  soldier  panting  for  the  fight 

Though  quite  benumbed  with  frost. 
Greene,  on  the  left,  at  six  began; 
The  right  was  led  by  Sullivan 

Who  ne'er  a  moment  lost. 

Their  pickets  stormed,  the  alarm  was  spread 
That  rebels  risen  from  the  dead 

Were  marching  into  town. 
Some  scampered  here;  some  scampered  there; 
And  some  for  action  did  prepare, 

But  soon  their  arms  laid  down. 

Twelve  hundred  servile  miscreants, 
With  all  their  colors,  guns,  and  tents, 

Were  trophies  of  the  day. 
The  frolic  o'er,  the  bright  canteen 
In  center,  front,  and  rear,  was  seen 

Driving  fatigue  away. 

Now,  brothers  of  the  patriot  bands, 
Let's  sing  deliverance  from  the  hands 

Of  arbitrary  sway; 
And  as  our  life  is  but  a  span, 
Let's  touch  the  tankard  while  we  can, 

In  memory  of  that  day. 

Anonymous. 

Nescit  Pericula,  the  Latin  words  found  inscribed  on  one  of  the 
standards  or  battle  flags,  captured  with  the  Hessians  at  Trenton,  may  be 
translated  "He  does  not  know  danger,"  and  means  "He  is  perfectly 
fearless."  The  resistance  offered  by  the  surprised  Hessians  on  that  fam 
ous  occasion  was  very  weak;  their  timid  action  belied  their  vaunting 
motto. 

The  attempt  to  explain  away  this  glaring  inconsistency  between 
word  and  deed,  by  suggesting  a  new  interpretation  of  the  motto,  is  what 
fires  point  to  the  following  epigram  which  appeared  at  the  time  in  the 
New  Hampshire  Gazelle 

The  man  who  submits  without  striking  a  blow, 

May  be  said,  in  a  sense,  no  danger  to  know; 

I.-; pray  then,  what  harm,  by  the  humble  submission, 

At  Trenton  was  done  by  the  standard  of  Hessian? 

[21] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

WASHINGTON  AT  TRENTON. 

December  26,  1776. 

The  dazzling  sun  drops  down  and  out  of  sight ; 

Clouds,  bowled  from  the  horizon,  toss  on  high; 
Across  the  ice  a  glancing  pallid  light 

Flows  from  the  lucid  amber  of  the  sky. 
Hark  to  the  booming  of  the  Delaware  ! 

The  rising  wind  lashes  the  branches  frore. 
And  now  a  steadier  sound  breaks  on  the  air — 

Trampling  of  the  troops  that  gather  on  the  shore. 

Black  falls  the  sudden  dark,  time  presses — haste  ! 

This  desperate  chance  to  seize  a  distant  foe 
Demands  all  speed.     Across  the  ice-clogged  waste 

Of  churning  waters  still  the  boats  move  slow. 
Firm  stands  the  intrepid  Chief  in  patient  strength; 

Knox  shouts  above  the  roaring  of  the  tide. 
In  waning  night  the  stream  is  passed  at  length, 

They  form  in  columns  on  the  further  side. 

The  storm  drives  slantingly  the  sleet;  down  shed 

From  swaying  pines  slip  weights  of  slush  below, 
The  soaked  and  ragged  soldiers,  buffeted, 

Leave  tracks  of  blood  along  the  drifted  snow. 
'Tis  Christmas  night,  when  children  dance  about 

The  glistening  tree  with  all  its  joys  beneath. 
Say,  do  these  fathers  hear  the  first  glad  shout? 

Lo,  two  have  fallen  now  in  frozen  death  ! 

What  wonder  they  are  sick  at  heart  and  throw 

Their  wet  and  useless  muskets  fiercely  by  ! 
In  every  anguished  breast  new  terrors  grow 

As  gray  dawn  glimmers  in  the  cloud-hung  sky. 
But  Washington:     "They  cannot  fight,  you  say? 

The  powder's  wet,  they  fling  their  muskets  down? 
Then  give  them  bayonets;  we  fight  to-day. 

Advance  and  charge  !     For  we  must  take  the  town 

He  dominates  the  pain;  the  numb  despair; 

The  shivering  fear  retreats,  a  thing  apart 
From  patriot  warfare,  and  to  each  man  there 

Goes  forth  the  courage  of  his  own  great  heart. 


[22] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


They  part  to  right  and  left.     Round  each  block-house 
The  moving  columns  creep.     "Now,  give  the  word!" 

The  Hessians,  wakened  from  their  long  carouse, 
Rise  dazed  to  see  the  flashing  of  the  sword. 

Frantic  the  cries:     "Turn  out!  Turn  out!  The  foes!" 

The  drums  are  rattling,  trumpets  crash  the  alarm. 
The  outposts  fly  and  wildly  fire  below 

From  upper  windows  of  each  captured  farm. 
Swiftly  they  train  their  cannon  in  the  street; 

But  ere  the  fire  breaks  forth  to  check  and  slay, 
Two  heroes  charge  upon  them  bold  and  fleet, 

Stop  not  for  wounds,  and  drag  the  guns  away. 

And  he  that  planned  is  he  that  rules  the  strife — • 
Great  Washington  still  in  the  vanguard  rides, 

Unhearing  those  that  beg  him  guard  his  life, 

Like  towering  flame  his  warrior  ardor  guides 

Brave  Rahl  has  fallen,  the  Hessian  flag  droops  low. 
The  Chief  whose  genius  led  this  wondrous  way 

Speaks  now  his  single  thought  with  face  aglow: 
"O,  for  our  country  what  a  glorious  day  !  " 

Sara  Wiley  Drummond. 

From  Poems  Lyrical  and  Dramatic  by  permission  of  John  Wiley  &  Sons 

Copyright  1900. 


THE  SURPRISE  OF  TRENTON 

December  26,  1776 

Eighteen   hundred   years   had   passed, 

Lacking    only    twenty-four, 
Since  the  Saviour,  one-begotten, 

Meek  the  virgin  mother  bore — 
Shepherds  on  that  very  night 

In  the  fields  their  watch  did  keep  , 
While  the  busy  world  around 

Silent  lay,  and  bathed  in  sleep — 

When  the  angel  of  the  Lord 

Came  upon  them,  and  a  light 

Great  and  glorious  shone  about 

Through  the  gloom  of  the  wintry  night; 


[231 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


And  the  heavenly  host  was  heard 

Singing  loud  o'er  field  and  fen. 
"Glory  be  to  God  in  the  Highest, 

Peace  on  Earth,  Good  will  to  men." 


Lowly    in   his   cradle-manger 

Then  the  infant  Saviour  slept. 
While  the  maiden  mother  o'er  him 

Tears  of  humble  gladness  wept; 
And  the  Magi  found  him  there, 

Who  had  followed  from  afar, 
When  they  saw  it  in  the  East, 

The  Redeemer's  holy  star; 


For  the  star  it  went  before  them, 
And  the  wise  ones  followed  on, 

Till  it  stood  above  the  spot, 

And  their  joyous  goal  was  won; 

Humbly  then  they  bowed  the  knee, 
Humbly  did  their  gifts  unfold, 

Gifts  of  ivory,  and  aloes, 

Myrrh,  and  frankincense,  and  gold. 


Eighteen  hundred  years  had  passed, 

Eighteen  hundred  years  and  eight, 
Since  the  Saviour,   one-begotten, 
Bowed  him  to  a  felon's  fate — 
Nailed  upon  the  cursed  tree 

;     Suffered  then  our  God  and  Lord — 
Peace  to  men  he  came  to  leave — 
"Peace  he  left  not,  but  a  sword  !  " 


Noon  it  was  of  Christmas  night 

On  the  wintry  Delaware, 
Sullenly  the  falling  snow 

Floated  through  the.  murky  air, 
Sullenly   the   flooded  river 

Moaned  the  whitening  shores  along, 
Sullenly  the  drifting  ice 

Groaned  and  tossed  i'   the  current    strong. 


Not  a  star  was  in  the  sky, 

NNot  a  sound  was  on  the  breeze, 
Not  a  voice  or  stir  there  was 

In  the  thickly  feathered  trees — 

[24] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Only  through  the  heavy  gloom 

Muttered  low  the  mournful  rushing 
Of  the  deep  and  dismal  stream, 

Through  its  icy  fetters  gushing. 

Lonely  were  the  streets  of  Trenton, 

Trenton  town  by  the  Delaware — 
Quartered  there  were  the  British  horse  ! 

Quartered  the  bearded  Hessians  there  ! 
Deep  the  snow  on  the  roofs  above  ! 

Deep  i'  the  trackless  roads  below — 
Hark  to  the  bell  !  'twas  midnight  chime  ! 

Oh  !  but  the  strokes  were  stern  and  slow 

Not  a  guard  was  on  his  post — 

Not  a  round  its  circuit  made — 
What  the  risk  in  such  a  storm? 

Where  the  foe  that  should  invade? 
Far  beyond  the  flooded  stream, 

Pennsylvania  wilds  among; 
For  the  patriot  army  lay, 

Frail,  disjoined,  and  unstrung — 

Washington,  who  late  so  glorious 

Braved  in  equal  arms  his  king, 
Sees  the  boasted  bird  victorious 

Sadly  droop  its  baffled  wing. 
"Soldiers,  spread  the  Christmas  feast — 

Soldiers,  fill  the  bumper  fair — 
Pass  the  bottle  !    pile  the  hearth  ! 

Cutting  cold  is  the  wintry  air — 

"Let  the  toast  our  country  be, 

From  whatever  country  we  ! 
Sons  of  German  Fatherland  ! 

Britons  ever  bold  and  free  ! 
Comrades,  troll  the 'jolly  stave — 

Pass  the  bottle — fear  no  wrong  ! 
For  the  rebel  hosts  are  weak, 

And  the  wintry  river  strong  ! 

"Tush  !  they  dare  not  !     We  who  drove  them 

Weak  and  weary,  faint  and  few — 
Tracked  them,  weaponless  and  wounded, 
O'er  the  roads  by  the  bloody  dew, ; 

[25] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Which  to  every  painful  print 

Trickled  from   their  shoeless  feet 

Tush  !    the  craven  dove  as  soon 
Shall  the  fearless  falcon  meet  ! ' 

Madly  raged  the  jovial  rout — 

Loud  the  bursts  of  loyal  song 
Rang  amid  the  drifting  storm, 

Rang  the  snowy  fields  along  ! 
Little  deemed  the  roistering  crew 

As  their  revelry  they  plied, 
What  avengers  stern  and  sure 

Gathered  on  the  icy  tide — 

Gathered,  soon  their  glee  to  mar, 

Hearts  afire  !  and  hand  on  hilt  ! 
Redder  liquor  far  than  wine 

Long  ere  morning  shall  be  spilt — 
Hark  the  deep  and  solemn  hum, 

Louder  than  the  river's  flow, 
Rising  heavier  through  the  night, 

Nearer  through  the  drifting  snow 

"Tis  the  hum  of  mustered  men — 

Barges  with  their  burthen  brave 
Painfully  and  long  are  tossing 

On  the  fierce  and  freezing  wave ; 
Horse  and  foot  and  guns  are  there, 

Struggling  through  the  awful  gloom- 
Soon  their  din  shall  rouse  the  foe  ! 

Rouse  him  like  the  trump  of  doom  ! 

Firm,  as  some  gigantic  oak, 

Stood  their  chief  on  the  hither  shore, 
Marking  how  his  comrades  true 

Prospered  with  the  laboring  oar ; 
Marking  how  each  barge  and  boat 

Slowly  battled  to  the  strand, 
Marking  how  the  serried  lines 

Mustered  as  they  came  to  land  ! 

Calm  and  high  his  noble  port — 

Calm  his  mighty  face  severe — 
None  had  seen  it  change  with  doubt, 

None  had  seen  it  pale  with  fear — 

[26] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

And  it  showed  as  grandly  now. 

In  that  wild  and  perilous  hour, 
Fraught  with  wisdom  half  divine, 

Fraught  with  more  than  mortal  power — 

Steadily  he  stood  and  gazed — 

Not  a  cloud  upon  his  brow — 
Calmer  in  the  banquet  hall 

Never  had  he  been  than  now  ! 
Yet    his    fate    was    on    the    cast — 

Life  !  and  fame  !  and  country  !  all  ! 
Sterner  game  was  never  played — 

Death  or  Freedom — win  or  fall  ! 

Fall  he — and  his  country's  hope 

Sets,  a  sun  no  more  to  rise  ! 
Win  he — and  her  dawning  light 

Yet  may  fill  the  unfathomed  skies 
Fall  he — and  his  name  will  wane, 

Rebel  chief  of  a  rebel  band  ! 
Win  he — it  shall  live  forever, 

Father  of  his  native  land  ! 

Silent  stood  he — grave  and  mute, 

Listening  now  the  distant  roar 
From  the  half -heard  town,  and  now 

Gazing  on  the  crowded  shore — 
Crowded  with  the  patriot  host, 

Burning  for  the  vengeful  fray — 
Ear,  and  eye,  and  heart,  erect, 

Waiting  for  the  trumpet's  bray  ! 

Silent — till  the  latest  boat 

Safe  had  stemmed  the  wheeling  tide, 

Till  the  latest  troop  was  banded, 

Heart  to  heart,  and  side  by  side. 

Then  he  turned  his  eyes  aloft, 

Moved  his  lips  for  a  little  space, 

Mighty  though  he  was,  he  bowed  him 

$$£     Meekly  to  the  throne  of  grace. 

'God  of  battles,  Lord  of  might, 

Let  my  country  but  be  free, 

To  thy  mercies  I  commend  me — 
Glory  to  thy  Son  and  Thee  !  " 


[27] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Then  he  waved  his  arm  aloft 

With  a  martial  gesture  proud — 

"Let  your  march,"  he  said,  "be  silent, 

Till  your  cannon  speak  aloud." 

Silent  was  their  rapid  march 

Through  the  mist  of  rain  and  sleet, 
For  the  deep  and  drifted  snow 

Gave  no  sound  beneath  their  feet — 
Clashed  no  musket,  beat  no  drum, 

As  they  fleeted  through  the  gloom, 
Liker  far,  than  living  men, 

To  the  phantoms  of  the  tomb. 

Morn  was  near,  but  overcast; 

In  the  dim  and  rayless  sky 
Not  a  gleam  foreshowed  his  coming, 

Yet  the  pallid  sun  was  nigh — 
Morn  was  near — but  not  a  guard 

Heard  their  march  or  saw  them  come — 
Lo  !  they  form  !  the  very  dogs 

In  the  fated  town  were  dumb  ! 

Hark  !  the  bell  !  the  bugle's  blast  ! 

Hark  !  the  loud  and  long  alarms  ! 
Beat  the  drums — but  all  too  late  ! 

All  too  late  they  beat  to  arms  ! 
Forth  they  rush  in  disarray, 

Forming  fast  with  fearful  din — 
"Open  now,  ye  mouths  of  flame  ! 

Pour  your  crashing  volleys  in  !  " 

See  !  the  sharp  and  running  flash  ! 

Hark  !  the  long  and  rattling  roll  ! 
There  the  western  muskets  blaze  \ 

Every  shot  a  mortal  soul  ! 
Vain  was  then  the  Hessian's  yager — 

Vain  the  English  horseman's  steel  ! 
Vain  the  German's  hardihood — 

Vain  the  Briton's  loyal  zeal  ! 

Fast  they  fall  the  best  and  bravest; 

Unavenged  and  helpless  fall, 
Rallying  their  men  dismayed, 

Campbell  bold  and  gallant  Rahl! 

[28] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

Then  before  that  murderous  hail, 

Thick,  incessant,  sure  as  death, 
Reel  the  shattered  columns  back  ! 

Gasp  the  dying  chiefs  for  breath  ! 

Lo  !'t  is  o'er  !  their  arms  they  ground  ! 

All,  that  brave  men  can,  did  they  !  3 
Fought,   while   fight  they   could !   then  yielded 

What  avails  the  hopeless  fray? 
What  avails  the  horse's  might, 

Though  his  neck  be  clothed  in  thunder? 
What  the  cannon's  fiery  breath 

Riving  rock-built  forts  asunder  ? 

What  avails  the  speed  of  navies 

Rocking  on  the  subject  tide? 
Nothing  !  when  the  Lord  of  Hosts 

Battles  on  the  righteous  side. 
He  who  giveth  not  the  race 

To  the  swift — nor  to  the  strong 
War's  red  honor — but  alway 

Strengthens  those  who  suffer  long  ! 

Surely  He  on  Trenton's  night 

Steeled  our  mighty  champion's  heart  ! 
Gave  him  wisdom,  gave  him  power, 

So  to  play  his  destined  part  ! 
Beat  the  fiercest  down  before  him, 

Turned  the  bravest  back  to  fly  ! 
Covered  aye  his  head  in  battle, 

That  no  hair  of  it  should  die  ! 

Held  him  steadfast  in  the  right, 

Till  his  glorious  task  was  o'er, 
And  no  hostile  banner  waved 

On  Columbia's  hallowed  shore — 
Till  his  name  was  spread  abroad, 

For  a  nation's  freedom  won, 
All-honored  from  the  setting 

To  the  rising  of  the  sun. 


From  Life  and  Writings  of  Frank  Forrester; 
Copyright  1882  by  Orange  Judd  Company. 


Henry  William  Herbert 
[29] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 
THE  BATTLE  OF  TRENTON. 

THE  TIMES  THAT  TRY  MEN'S  SOULS- 

This  land  is  ours  and  we  are  free! 
We  dwell  in  peace  and  calm  security: 
For  his  our  sires  strove  long  and  wearily, 
And  with  their  blood  gained  our  dear  liberty. 

For  when  oppressors  o'er  the  waves 
Doomed  us  to  die  a  race  of  slaves, 
And  sent  their  fleets  and  armies  here 
To  frighten  men  who  felt  no  fear, 
Our  fathers  saw  the  gathering  storm — 

They  watched  the  clouds, 

But   feared   no   harm. 
Uprising  in  their  might,  they  stood 
To  breast  the  strong  invading  flood, 
And  like  firm  rocks  that  guard  the  shore 
Where  lofty  billows  dash  and  roar, 
Though  most  o'erwhelmed  by  rising  woes, 
They  stood  the  storm,  beat  back  their  foes. 

On  Jersey's  soil  that  tempest  broke 
With  thunder's  roar  and  lightning's  stroke. 
The  wasteful  waves  washed  wild  and  high, 
Destructive,  towering  to  the  sky. 
On  Trenton's  plain  that  tide  was  turned — 
On  Princeton's  field  hope's  bright  star  burned: 
Old  Monmouth's  sands  drank  up  that  flood — 
Destructive,  dark,  and  dyed  with  blood. 

Upon  thy  banks,  majestic  Delaware — 
Now  calm,  now  peaceful,  now  serenely  fair 
The  crash,  the  carnage,  and  the  cry  of  war 
Burst  on  the  air  and  rang  from  shore  to  shore. 
Where  by  the  moonlight,  'neath  the  woodland's  shade 
Now  strolls  the  lover  with  his  bright-eyed  maid; 
Where  by  the  roadside,  wandering  from  their  home, 
The  bleating  sheep  run  grazing  as  they  roam — 
Far  different  acts  in  other  days  were  done, 
Far  different  sights  lay  open  to  the  sun. 

For  two  long  years  the  clouds  of  bloody  war 
Had  driven  peace  and  plenty  from  our  shore ; 

T30] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Where  bloomed  the  rose,  and  white  wheat  waved  its  head, 

There  grew  the  thistle  and  the  tare  instead; 

Where  stood  the  cottage  on  the  hill's  green  brow 

There's  nothing  left  to  mark  that  cottage  now; 

And  he  who  reared  it  for  a  happy  home 

Was  turned  a  wanderer  on  the  world  to  roam. 

The  Indian  scalping-knife  had  gone 

Through  hamlet  and  through  frontier  tcwn; 

The  Hessian's  sabre  reeked  with  blood 

From  old  and  young,  the  brave  and  good. 

The  British  bayonet  was  wet 

With  brothers'  blood — we  can't  forget — 

The  outcast  Tory's  hellish  crew 

Did  what  the  savage  scorned  to  do — 

No  mercy  shown  to  silvery  hairs, 

To  maiden's  tears  or  woman's  prayers; 

The  infant  sleeping  on  its  bed 

Must  die,  because  from  rebels  bred. 

Our  little  band  had  slowly  fled — 

Half  clothed,  half  disciplined,  half  fed — 

Before  the  exulting  British  foe, 

Marching  with  pomp  and  royal  show; 

And  they  who  pledged  their  lives  and  honor 

To  shield  our  cause — protect  our  banner — 

In  that  dark  hour  and  night  of  gloom 

"That  tried  men's  souls,"  feared  for  their  doom. 

Unshaken  in  that  band  was  one — 
The  great,  the  glorious  Washington; 
He  to  the  God  of  armies  cried, 

"In  Thee  we  trust,  in  Thee  confide! 
Jehovah,  stretch  Thy  mighty  arm 
And  shield  our  righteous  cause  from  harm!" 
The  Almighty,  from  His  throne  on  high, 
Looked  on  our  land  with  pitying  eye; 
He  interposed  His  matchless  power 
And  saved  us  in  that  trying  hour. 

THE  MARCH  ON  TRENTON. 

In  Trenton  when  the  sun  was  set, 
The  Hessians  at  their  quarters  met; 
And  while  the  brilliant  candles  shine, 
They  pass  along  the  sparkling  wine' 

[31] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


For  Christmas  day  had  come  and  gone, 
The  joyful  hours  were  nearly  flown; 
With  a  merry  laugh,  our  country's  foe 
Enjoy  the  minutes  as  they  flow, 
And  many  a  soldier  sang  with  glee 
Of  blue-eyed  maids  in  Germany. 

On  Pennsylvania's  wintry  shore 

The  chilling  blast  howled  loud  and  sore! 

When  lulled  the  winds,  there  echoed  then 

The  heavy  tramp  of  armed  men. 

Columbia's  sons  haste  to  the  strife 

To  strike  for  liberty  and  life. 

George  Washington  was  at  their  head! 
A  gallant  band  and  nobly  led ; 
Then  wheeling  down,  rank  pressing  rank, 
They  eager  crowd  the  river's  bank ; 
Dark  Delaware's  wide,  wasteful  wave 
Washed  wild  and  high,  a  watery  grave; 

The  rushing  ice,  with  crash  and  roar, 
Dashed  madly  past  the  stormy  shore; 
Quick  to  the  boats  the  soldiers  leap 
To  breast  the  waves  and  cross  the  deep ; 
They  brave  the  storm  and  blast  of  heaven, 
Dark  through  the  ice  though  madly  driven; 
Each  sturdy  oar  is  strongly  plied 
To  gain  the  river's  distant  side; 
The  helmsmen  strive  with  eager  eye 
To  pierce  the  gloom,  and  white  shore  spy; 
And  soon  they  see  the  snow-clad  banks, 
Soon  reach  the  shore  with  joy  and  thanks. 
Each  soldier  casts  aside  his  oar 
And  leaps  upon  the  Jersey  shore; 
Then  wheeling  into  line,  they  go 
Struggling  with  wind  and  pelting  snow. 

They  come  from  hills  and  rivers  far, 
In  freedom's  cause  to  brave  the  war; 
There's  one  from  Susquehanna's  side, 
He's  left  his  home  and  youthful  bride; 
And  there  are  men,  brave  mid  the  brave, 
Whose  farms  o'erlook  the  Hudson's  wave; 


[32] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


And  in  that  band  of  men  so  true 
Is  many  a  gallant  Jersey  Blue; 
And  Pennsylvania's  sons  are  there 
And  gallant  men  from  Delaware. 

Brave  old  Virginia's  riflemen 
Came  from  their  homes  and  native  glen; 
New  England's  sons,  her  boast  and  pride, 
Leaving  their  homes  and  fireside 
Stood  to  support  Columbia's  war 
Upon  the  banks  of  Delaware. 

Chilled  with  the  blast  and  wintry  snow — 
Half  naked,  weary,  rilled  with  woe — 
But  with  undaunted  hearts  they  stand 
Impatient— waiting    the    command. 
Then  rang  the  voice  of  Washington — 
"My  noble  men!     Press  onward!     On!" 
Upon  the  word  the  bugle  rings, 
And  forward  every   soldier  springs. 

THE  SURPRISE  AND  ATTACK. 

And  darker  then  the  black  night  grew, 
And  louder  then  the  wild  wind  blew, 
And  faster  flew  the  flakes  of  snow, 
And  higher  still  the  snow-drifts  grow. 
No  rattling  drum  nor  shrieking  fife 
Was  heard  amid  the  tempest's  strife. 
The  struggling  horse  and  staggering  men 
Press  on  the  march  with  toil  and  pain, 
Staining  the  snow  with  bloody  feet 
Battling  the  blast,  the  cold  and  sleet. 

In  Trenton,  sheltered  from  the  storm 

The  Hessians  slept,  nor  dreamed  of  harm; 

The  sentries  at  the  outposts  placed 

With  sullen  steps  their  watches  paced; 

No  watch-dog's  bark  disturbed  the  night. 

No  cock's  shrill  clarion  challenged  fight; 

The  whirlwind's  blast  and  tempest's  moan 

Fell  on  the  sentry's  ear  alone, 

When  suddenly  a  signal  gun 

Told  to  our  men  the  march  was  done, 

And  to  the  sleeping  Hessian  host 

Of  dangers  near  and  battle  lost. 


[33] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


As  angry  bees  protect  their  hive 

And  from  their  stores  the  plunderers  drive, 

So  turned  the  Hessians  out  in  force 

To  check  our  columns'  onward  course. 

But  Sullivan  went  thundering  on, 

And  onward  charged  George  Washington; 

They  charged  on  men  who  firmly  stood 

Waiting  the  shock  with  burning  blood; 

For  they  had  fought  on  foreign  field 

Were  used  to  conquer,  not  to  yield. 

But  they  were  struggling  with  the  free — 
Men  who  had  drawn  for  liberty, 
Men  who  had  braved  the  torrent's  force, 
Men  who  had  watched  the  whirlwind's  course, 
Men  who  had  laid  the  forest  low. 
Had  fought  and  quelled  the  savage  foe ; 
Men  who  had  looked  from  mountain  height 
And  seen  their  homes  and  wheat  fields  white, 
Their  cattle  grazing  on  the  plain, 
Then  turned  unto  the  chase  again ; 
And  when  at  evening  they  returned, 
Their  children  gone,  their  cottage  burned, 
Paused  not  to  weep  in  vain,  distressed 
With  sorrow  weighing  down  their  breast ; 
But  to  the  rescue  of  their  young, 
With  manly  hearts  they  nobly  sprung; 
And  struggling  desperately  alone 
(No  mercy  asked,  no  mercy  shown,) 
Amid  the  forest's  gloomy  shade 
Avenged  their  wrongs  with  bloody  blade, 
Rescued  from  harm  and  savage  grasp 
With  joy  again  their  young  they  clasp. 

In  column  now  these  men  advanced, 
Their  serried  ranks  terrific  glanced, 
Their  gallant  hearts  beat  high  and  fast — 
Upon  that  charge  the  die  was  cast. 
Then  death  rode  riot  through  the  bloody  street, 
For  death  holds  revel  when  stern  warriors  meet. 
Heaps  upon  heaps  the  hireling  Hessians  fall, 
Poor  purchased  private  and  brave  general  Rahl. 

"Hurrah  !     Hurrah  !  !     Hurrah  !  !  !"  our  gallant  soldiers  shout. 
"The  foemen  falter,  flee — it  is  a  rout,  a  rout!" 

[34] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Then  forward  pressed  our  fast  prevailing  ranks, 
Drove  in  their  front  and  chased  their  scattered  flanks. 

As  forest  leaves  the  wild  winds  blow, 
As  eddying  wheels  the  drifting  snow, 
So  fell  the  Hessian  force  before 
The  onward  course  our  column  bore. 
No  refuge  could  the  foeman  find; 
Beset  in  front,  pursued  behind, 
They  yield  unto  the  fate  of  war 
Upon  the  banks  of  Delaware. 
Proud  hour  was  that  for  freedom's  cause 
Foretelling  peace  and  equal  laws: 
For  Bethlehem's  star  on  Palestine 
On  Christmas  eve  did  brightly  shine, — 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  on  Trenton's  plain 
Gave  freedom  to  the  world  again. 


THE  MONUMENT  AT  TRENTON 

And  shall  no  column  mark  this  spot? 
And  shall  these  heroes  be  forgot? 
No!     while  the  race  of  men  shall  last, 
While  memory  recalls  the  past, 
Altho  no  monumental  pile 
May  mark  the  field  for  mile  on  mile, 
The  glory  of  that  day  will  be 
As  lasting  as  eternity. 
Yet  rear  a  monument  of  stone 
Before  the  last,  lone,  lingering  one 
Who  shared  the  dangers  of  that  day 
By  the  stern  reaper  Death  is  called  away. 

Not  that  with  him  the  race  of  heroes  died ; 

•'Oh,  no!"  the  streets  of  Monterey  replied. 

Our  brothers'  blood  as  nobly  now  does  flow, 

Witness  ye  hills,  ye  plains,  ye  vales,  ye  dales  of  Mexico 

We  fear  not  that  the  memory  of  one  name 

Of  those  who  gave  a  luster  to  our  country's  fame 

Will  fade.     From  childhood's  lisping  lips  we  hear 

Of  Knox,  Monroe,  and  Stark  the  mountaineer, 

And  many  names  of  those  who  dared 

Rush  on  the  foe  when  half  the  land  despaired 

And  from  that  field  sent  up  a  victor's  shout 

When  fled  the  foe  in  hurried  headlong  rout. 

[35] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


They  well  deserve  our  homage  and  our  praise. 

Those  daring  men  of  dark  and  gloomy  days; 

Nations  have  deemed  those  worthy  of  proud  monuments 

Who  conquered  in  the  breach-scaled  lofty  battlements. 

These  conquered  famine,  foes,  and  traitor-plot 

Build  high  their  column  on  this  hallowed  spot , 

That  there  the  thanks  of  "millions  yet  to  be  " 

May  rise  a  grateful  tribute  to  their  memory. 

Shall  we  who  dwell  in  peace  and  calm  security 

For  which  our  sires  strove  long  and  wearily ; 

Whose  bright  swords  saved  us  from  the  chains  of  slaves — 

Live  sluggard  lives  and  fill  ungrateful  graves? 

No!     Jerseymen  are  brave  and  honor  mighty  deeds, 

In  every  foremost  rark  of  war  New  Jersey  leads. 

Long  ere  this  nineteenth  century's  onward  course  runs  out, 

Uprear  their  column  with  a  mighty  shout: 

Yes!     found  it  deep,  and  rear  it  towards  the  sky, 

That  its  fair  form  may  catch  the  traveler's  eye, 

And  strangers  ask  with  wonder  all  the  while 

What  means  this  column — who  built  up  this  pile? 

Then  with  a  generous  pride  we  well  can  say, 

Here  fought  our  fathers — here  the}'  gained  the  day; 

Our  liberty  was  won  by  those  who  fought  and  bled; 

And  we  their  children  reverence  them  now  dead, 

And  in  their  footprints  follow,  follow  true; 

And,  rallying  round  our  flag,  the  red,  the  white,  the  blue — 

No  stripe  obscured — no  single  star  erased — 

Will  never  see  our  much-loved  soil  disgraced — 

True  to  our  rights — the  people's  sovereignty — 

Freedom  of  conscience  and  no  bigotry. 

Sons  of  New  Jersey,  guard  the  mighty  dead, 
For  you  they  fought,  for  you  they  freely  bled. 
Their  ashes  now  repose  beneath  your  sod' 
Their  spirits  gone  to  glory  and  to  God, 
We  have  held  converse  face  to  face 
With  the  last  relics  of  that  noble  race ; 
With  rapt  ear  listened  as  we  heard  them  tell 
Our  nation's  history  and  have  marked  it  well. 
Those  of  a  future  day  will  only  know 
From  us  the  story  of  their  toil  and  woe. 
Their  valor,  victory,  wisdom,  prudence,  all, — 
Plain  as  the  writing  on  Belshazzar's  wall, 
Let  us  inscribe  it  high  on  blocks  of  stone, 
That  men  may  read,  not.  hear  of  it  alone. 

[36] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Let  tyrants  read  it  and  their  thrones  o'erthrow; 

Let  traitors  read  it  and  their  plots  forego ; 

Let  patriots  mark  it — and  their  spirits  long 

Like  them  to  live  in  marble  and  in  song. 

For  their  great  deeds  will  last  till  endless  days, 
The  statesman's  model  and  the  poet's  praise. 

Long  may  their  valor,  virtue  and  their  truth 
Inspire  the  bosoms  of  our  generous  youth 
To  heed  their  bright  example,  and  revere 
Their  noble  deeds  and  hold  their  memory  dear. 

Then  for  our  country's  future  we  need  dread 

No  sad  mishap ;  virtue  by  valor  led 

Will  ever  win.  We  fear  no  monarch's  frown ;  God  is  our  king ; 

To  Him  we  bow,  to  Him  our  praises  sing. 

Then  let  us  pray  to  heaven  with  one  accord, 
For  Israel's  God,  Jehovah,  is  our  Lord: 

Oh  God  !  protect  us  and  our  country's  cause, 

Our  Constitution  and  our  equal  laws. 

Henry  Kollock  How. 


THE  RETREAT  OF  SEVENTY-SIX. 

Tramp!     Tramp!     Tramp!     Tramp! 

4 'What  flying  band  with  thundering  tread 

Along  the  bridge  disordered  led, 

With  rapid  and  alarming  stamp 
Now  hurries  o'er  the  tide? 

Waking  the  pattering  echoes  far  and  wide, 
On — on  they  come — tumultuous  come! 
With  rattling  arms  and  clamoring  drum: 

Till  all  the  wooden  arches  round 

Challenge  aloud  the  intruding  sound 
And  clank  for  clank,  and  stamp  for  stamp  rebound!" 

Thus  spake  a  stranger  to  the  crowd 
New-gathered  on  Passaic's  banks, 
Drawn  by  the  din  of  trampling  ranks 

Resounding  far  and  loud. 

[37] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


A  skulking  and  half-hidden  knave 
From  out  the  group  this  answer  gave: 

"It  is  the  rebel  band, 
In  arms,  audacious  to  withstand 
The  legions  of  their  lawful  king, 
Now  flying  fast  with  broken  wing." 

"Base  renegade!     'tis  false!"  replied 

A  crippled  veteran  at  his  side; 

With  locks  all  wintry-white  and  waving: 

"No  rebels  these  a  righteous  monarch  braving 

The  holiest  cause  that  ever  prayers 

Of  good  men  rose  to  aid,  is  theirs: 

No!     these  are  honest  patriots — steeled 

With  Justice'  sword  and  Freedom's  shield — 

Alas!     With  other  armor  scarce,  or  none: 
Sprung  from  the  shop,  the  woods,  the  field, 
To  die,  perchance,  but  not  to  yield, 
Till  all  their  country's  wounds  are  healed, 

And  all  their  rights  are  won! 
Long,  long  have  they  besought  in  vain 
Their  rulers  to  relax  their  chain: 

Unheard  was  every  prayer: 
Thus  writhing  with  the  pain,  what  wonder 

The  frenzied  struggles  of  despair 
At  last  should  rend  the  galling  links  asunder? 

My  kindred  share  their  country's  fate: 
Two  sons  I  boast  in  yonder  train, 
And  one  lies  on  Long  Island  plain — 
Had  these  old  limbs  their  strength  again 

I  were  not  here  to  prate! 

"Whence  haste  they  now  thus  spent,  forlorn. 
Half-armed,  half-clad,  on  winter-morn, 
With  bleeding  feet  unshod  and  torn? 
And  as  their  wheeling  ranks  advance, 
Why  turn  they  back  with  anxious  glance, 
As  if  some  danger  tracked  the  rear? 

"Alas!  their  dearest  hopes  are  crossed: 
Defeated,  driven,  the  city  lost, 
Surrendered  every  fort  and  post 

Before  them  shame  and  fear: 
Behind,  with  all  the  royal  host, 

Cornwallis  stops  the  rear: 


[38] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Despair,  disgrace 
In  every  face, 

No  glance  along  their  panic  lines 
With  still  unquailing  courage  shines, 
Save  his,  in  whom  they  trust  alone, 
The  gallant  chief  who  leads  them  on: 

But    he    is    Washington! 
Oh!  that  he  now  would  turn,  and  stand! 
Stop!     leader  of  the  flying  band — 
Freedom,  and  the  wailing  land 
Beseeching,  cling  around  thy  knees: 
Oh,  shield  them  from  their  enemies! 
The  sacred  soil  by  foes  is  trod: 

Drive  back  th'  invaders  to  the  waves! 
One  freeman  on  his  native  sod 

Can  match  a  score  of  slaves: 
Stop!     Better  were  the  deadliest  fight 
Than  such  unworthy  flight: 
All  is  not  lost — or  if  it  be, 
Still  stand! — the  dead  at  least  are  free: 

Why  shun  the  strife  that  must  begin? 
Ranged  by  yon  stream  in  phalanx  fast, 
Convince  the  world,  though  crushed  at  last, 

You  have  deserved  to  win: 

Stand  all,  that  narrow  bridge  before, 
And  ere  one  foeman  passes  o'er, 
With  your  free  bodies  pave  the  floor 

That  tyranny  may  see 
Her  path  to  power  so  ghastly  dread, 
O'er  bloody  causeway  of  the  dead, 
Appalled,  she  shall  not  dare  to  tread 

But  leave  the  free  land  free! 

"They're  gone! — why  should  they  list  to  me? 
And  fast  beyond  the  hills  afar 
Sink  the  last  plumes  of  passing  war. 
Yet  shone  there  in  their  leader's  eye 
A  fixed  enduring  energy — 
A  beacon  steady  in  the  storm's  turmoil: 
There  must  be  hope,  hope  even  in  flight, 
While  such  an  eye  as  that  keeps  bright ; 
He  may  retreat,  yet  scorn  to  fly; 
And  thus  his  forces  gathering, 
Sudden  as  bended  steel,  may  spring 
With  terrible  recoil!" 


[39] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

II. 

Tramp!     Tramp!     Tramp!     Tramp! 

"Hark!     again  the  martial  stamp 

On  the  hollow  bridge  resounds, 

From  the  steepy  shore  rebounds, 

Peopling  thick  with  sounds  the  air; 

Mid  shouting  horns  and  glittering  armor  fair! 
See!     in  dazzling  pomp  advancing, 
Banners  flaunting,  horses  prancing, 
Seas  of  plumes  in  billows  dancing! 

And  far  away  the  frosty  bayonets  glancing! 
Hark,  harmonious  music,  sent 
From  many  a  breathing  instrument, 
Pouring  from  their  mellow  throats 
Streaming  hoards  of  golden  notes: 

That  the  ear 
/         Which  turns  to  hear, 

Cloyed  at  last  with  luscious  treasure, 

Sickens  with  delirious  pleasure 

Till  rattling  bugle-call,  and  cymbal-clash 

Startle  the  host — and  arms  and  armor  flash 
With   sudden   glory    there! 
While  ever  and  anon 
The  trumpet's  lawless  tone 

Rips  up  with  rent  outrageous  the  broad  air. 

What  troops  are  these  in  burnished  armor  fair?" 

At  which  the  busy  knave  once  more 
Intruded  answer  as  before: 

'It  is  the  royal  host 

Sent  from  England's  distant  coast 

In  full  accoutred  pomp,  to  bring 
The  rebel  crew  submissive  to  their  King." 
"Silence  that  raven's  horrid  croak!" 
The  veteran  then  impatient  broke: 
"These  are  the  foes  of  whom  I  spoke, 

The  tyrant's  blood-hounds  dread." 

"A  goodly  sight!"     the  stranger  cried: 
"How  gaily  pass  their  ranks  of  pride 
Along  the  bridge  successive  led! 
First  in  the  glittering  course, 
Stately  slow,  with  conscious  force, 


1.40] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Snorting,  prance  the  gallant  horse! 

Clattering  with  irregular  beat 
Tumultuous  ring  the  mingled  iron  feet: 

Now  in  banded  order  tramp 

Ranks  of  foot,  with  timing  stamp 

Clad  in  robes  of  gory  shade, 

j    ivery  of  their  dreadful  trade ; 

O'er  their  heads,  the  breezes  braving, 
St.  George's  bloody  banner-cross  is  waving: 
Now  o'er  the  trembling  bridge  with  groaning  jar 
Rolls  lumbering  on  the  ponderous  cannon-car: 

But  who  are  these  which  last  appear, 

With  foreign  garb  and  reckless  air, 

In  shaggy  caps  of  savage  hair  ? 

No  British  troops  so  wildly  stare: 

What  strangers  have  we  here?" 

"This!"  cried  the  old  man,  and  clenched  his  hand 
'This  is  the  hireling  Hessian  band 
Bought  and  sold 
With  British  gold: 

Sent,  with  murderous  heart  and  brand, 

To  subdue  this  savage  land: 

Come  with  robberies  and  fires, 

Come  with  rapine  all  unsparing, 
Terror  of  the  sick  and  old: 

Insulting  helpless  women — scaring 

Children  whom  their  arms  enfold, 
And  butchering  their  sires. 

"Ah!     while  I  watch  yon  mighty  host 
I  feel  as  every  hope  was  lost; 
Their  dazzling  arms  grow  foully  dark 
As  I  their  coming  horrors  mark — 
Horrors  that  o'er  my  sense  already  fleet: 
I  hear  yon  cannon's  stunning  din 
O'erwhelming  Pity's  voice  within: 
I  hear  those  horns,  whose  song  ascends 
With  voice  of  angels,  urge  to  deeds  of  fiends  : 
I  see  the  horse  with  trampling  feet 
The  fractured  breasts  of  brethren  beat: 
Those  glittering  tubes  already  roar — 
^     I  hear  their  fatal  bullets  whistle: 
W£     I  see  their  steely  points  that  bristle 
Grow  crimson  wet  with  kindred  gore: 
Come  back!     ye  scarlet  legions  dread — 

[41] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Oh!     think  on  what  ye  do! 
'Tis  brothers'  blood  ye  seek  to  shed: 
The  curse  of  Cain  will  brand  your  head, 
And  ghosts  of  all  the  murdered  dead 

Your  visions  will  pursue! 
Loose  not  those  hireling  wolves  to  howl — 
On  kindred  homes  and  fields  to  prowl, 

On  kindred  flesh  to  prey! 
Be  generous  in  your  pride  of  power! 
Have  mercy  now  in  triumph's  hour, 

And  further  havoc  stay! — 
Alas!     they  hasten  on  their  way, 
Nor  heed  what  prating  age  may  say ; 

But  urge  their  cruel  course, 
Untouched  by  pity  or  remorse — 
Come  back!     ye  bloody  fiends  of  war, 
Ye  slaves  of  tyrants  bloodier  far; 
Defeated  as  your  victims  are, 
Still  have  they  mortal  fangs  to  scar 

Ye  shall  not  crush  unstung! 
Yes!     One  free  fragment  of  a  blade 
Ere  this  has  deadliest  havoc  made 

Invaders'  ranks  among; 
For  Freedom  is  a  tigress,  bayed: 

'Beware!     touch  not  her  young! ' 


They're  gone  beyond  the  hills  afar: 
Convulsive,  faint,  no  longer  shrill, 
Along  Passaic's  lonely  brink 

Swell  the  last  clarion-notes  of  passing  war, 
That  heave,  and  sink — 

Heave  and  sink, 
And  all  again  is  still 

III. 

'Tis  night  along  the  Delaware — 
'Tis  merry   Christmas  night; 
And  all  the  holiday  may  share, 
Save  yonder  band  of  patriots  thereT 

Preparing  for  the  fight. 
Extended  on  the  opposing  coast 
Is  quartered  all  the  royal  host, 
Scattered  in  many  a  post 


[42J 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

"Now  !  "  the  patriot  captain  said, 
"Clip  their  wings  while  they  are  spread  !  " 

Rattling  hail,  and  drizzling  sleet 

'Gainst  their  freezing  faces  beat  : 

Lo  !  in  many  a  shallow  boat 

Thick-crowded  on  the  stream  they  float, 

With  horse  and  cannon  laden  low, 

Fast  whitening  in  the  driving  snow: 

With  darkness,  storm,  and  foes  before, 

While  round  them,  with  alarming  roar, 

Fragments  of  massive  ice  rush  crashing  on  the  shore  t 

Tis  night  along  the  Delaware — 

Tis  merry    Christmas   night, 
And  all  the  holiday  may  share: 
The  Hessian  ranks  throw  off  their  care, 
And  Trenton  rings  right  merrily 
With    strangest    warrior-minstrelsy : 
"Glory  greet  the  roving  band  ! 
"What  though  banished  far  to  roam — 
"Soldiers  ever  find  a  home  ! 
"When  unwelcome  thoughts  o'ercome, 
"Still  with  drinking 
"Banish    thinking  ! 
"Glory  greet  the  exiled  band  ! 
"Let  the  toast  be  Father-land  ! 
"Till  peep  of  morning  light: 
"Fill  high  the  can! 
"Fill   high   the   can 
"To  Glory's  prize — the  soldier's  mark: 
'The  toast — the  toast  be  Father-land! 
"Till  peep  of  morning — " 

Hark! 

Hark  to  the  deadly  volley's  rattle  ! 
Hark  to  the  shout — the  crash  of  battle  ! 
To  arm  !  to  arms  !  they  rush,  they  form — 
The  post  surprised — the  vanguard  beat 
No  hope  is  left  them  but  retreat  ! 
Away  ! — their  foes  hold  every  street — 
'Tis  Washington  that  guides  the  storm 
And  flight  and  strife  alike  are  vain: 
Surrounded,  humbled,  in  despair, 
A  thousand  men  surrender  there, 
And  Rahl,  their  chief,  is  slain  ! 

[43] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


V. 

Tis  night  along  Assanpink  stream, 
And  wide  the  flaming  watch-fires  gleam, 
While  here  and  there,  from  either  shore, 
The  bellowing  cannon  rarely  roar, 
As  if  to  clear  their  rugged  throats 
To  chant  to-morrow's  death-hymn  notes; 
For,  quickened  with  the  late  disgrace, 
Cornwallis  rushed  with  force  apace 
From  royal  'scutcheon  to  efface 

The  foul,  corroding  stain; 
To-morrow  shall  the  shame  atone — 
For  that  shoal,  narrow  creek  alone 

Divides  the  foes  in  twain. 

What  now  can  save  the  little  band? 
Behind, — the  frozen  Delaware, 
Too  frail  an  army's  weight  to  bear 
Would  yet  all  passing  boats  withstand: 
Before,  around  them  all  the  land 

Is  mastered  by  the  foe: 
And  were  it  not,  the  moistening  sky 
Has  mired  the  ways,  they  cannot  fly ; 
Loud  shout  the  royal  chivalry  ! 
"To-morrow  with  a  blow 

Will  lay  the  ragged  rebels  low  !  " 
Oh  !    God  of  suffering  right,  be  with  them  now  ! 

VI. 

'Tis  morn  along  Assanpink  stream, 
And  paling  watch-fires  dimly  gleam: 
Cornwallis  heads  his  bright  array — 
But  ah  !  the  rebels — where  are  they? 
Gone  with  all  their  tools  of  war  ! 
Tent,  cannon,  stores,  and  baggage-car — 
All  save  their  fires  alone  ! 

At  midnight  fell  a  sudden  cold, 

That  froze  the  yielding  earth  to  stone — 
Oh,  sure  from  pitying  Heaven  it  came  ! 
And  back  with  all  their  force  they  rolled, 
Safe-shielded  by  the  treacherous  flame: 

But  whither  are  they  gone  ? 


144] 


WASHINGTON  AT  THE  SECOND  BATTLE  OF  TRENTON 
January  2,  1777 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

Hark  !  cracking  cannon  in  the  rear 

Ring  sharply  on  the  frosty  air — 

The  British  leader,  struck  with  wonder; 

Cries  "Can  that  be  thunder?" 
Yes  !   'tis  thunder  tears  the  sky — 
Yes  !  those  crashing  bolts  that  fly 
Shall  rend  the  ears  of  Tyranny — 
Those  lightnings  blast  her  form  ! 
A  tempest  bursts  on  Princeton  plain 
Of  iron  hail,  and  leaden  rain, 
Which,  ere  its  fury  hush  again, 
Shall  strew  the  ravaged  earth  with  slain: 
'Tis  Liberty  that  wings  the  whirlwind  storm! 

See  her  chosen  son 
Lead  her  scanty  forces  on! 
Half-armed,  half-trained  in  warlike  arts, 

No  matter!  dangerous  still: 
The  steel  they  boast  is  in  their  hearts, 

And  heaven  will  teach  them  skill — 
Hark  their  leader's  trumpet-tones  of  cheer! 
"One  stout  blow  will  set  us  clear 
The  first  report  that  stuns  his  ear 
Will  bring  Cornwallis  furious  here 
We  must  at  once  break  through  the  rear — 

We  must — we  can — we  will!" 

Then  cannon  oped  the  dreadful  revel — 
Then  muskets  dropped  in  deadly  level, 
And  Murder,  as  the  signal  broke, 
Threw  o'er  the  foes  his  sulphurous  cloak, 
The  better  in  its  folds  of  smoke 

His  bloody   work  to  do: 
And  deeds  were  done  so  foul  alas! 
Himself,  all  butcher  as  he  was, 
In  face  of  heaven  had  shuddered  to  revie 
But  vain  the  patriot's  bold  attack — 
The  van  is  checked — 'tis  beaten  back! 
Oh  Freedom's  God!  must  all  be  lost! 
At  once,  uncounting  every  cost, 

Their  chief,  whose  zeal  with  danger  rose, 
A  starry  standard  seizes  there, 
And  waves  it  through  the  sulphurous  air, 

Then  spurs  between  the  foes! 
Thickens  the  din,  the  smoke,  the  flash; 


J4S] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  bayonet  thrust,  the  sabre  gash; 
The  heated  combatants,  grown  rash, 
Madly  on  each  other  dash; 

But  God  defends  the  right: 
On  Freedom  bids  the  victory  light, 
But  claims  a  hero  for  His  prize ; 
For  shattered  in  the  front  of  fight, 

Devoted  Mercer  lies! 

A  stubborn  remnant  yet  maintain 
Their  stand  within  the  college  fane: 
The  muses'  hallowed  halls  they  stain 

With  all  the  wreck  of  fight. 
The  victor  summons — and  they  yield; 
Triumphant  now  he  quits  the  field 
Before  the  royal  vanguard  daunts  the  sight. 

Cornwallis  comes  with  thundering  speed — 
Revenge  his  raging  senses  blinds — 
Too  late!     'tis  past  the  hour  of  need: 
His  dead  along  his  track  he  finds, 
His  living,  scattered  to  the  winds! 
And  sheltered  mid  the  hills  afar, 

The  rebels,  in  his  grasp  at  night, 
Themselves  victorious  from  the  fight, 
With  all  the  spoils  of  war! 
Astounded  at  the   daring  feat, 
At  once  he  sounds  retreat: 
And  leaves  the  soil  he  late  profaned, 
Save  by  the  captured  foe,  unstained. 

VII. 

Applauding  shouts  the  land  rang  round, 

Of  triumph,   and  of  victory! 

Then  hope  first  pierced  the  gloom  profound, 

And  then  the  stars,  which  rose  in  shame 

When  the  young  banner  'gan  to  fly, 

First  peeped  through  trouble's  cloudy  sky 

And  sparkled  on  the  eye! 
And  Joy  the  bright  alliance  crowned 

Which  Freedom  made  with  Fame, 
When  Trenton  grew  a  battle-cry, 

And  Princeton  found  a  name. 


[46] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

Then  broke  the  auspicious  day! 

As  hope  new  arms  to  courage  gave 

Fast  rolled  successes  wave  on  wave. 
All  brightly  gilt  with  glory's  morning  ray: 
The  Lion,  blinded,  in  despair, 
Slunk  baffled  to  his  lair: 

While  boldly  high 
The  Eagle  of  unquailing  eye 
Soared  sunward  with  a  scream  of  joy, 

And  flapped  his  wings  for  victory! 
And  as  the  vapors  fold  by  fold 
Before  the  light  retreating  rolled, 

Lo!     Freedom  on  the  lofty  stand 
Of  Alleghanian  mountains  towered,  and  blazed, 

Sole  sovereign  of  the  land: 
Long,  long  from  man  in  mists  concealed, 
Then  first  with  every  charm  revealed, 

Her  form  august  she  raised: 

August,  yet  gracious,  and  her  brows  were  bound 
With  lustrous  stars  that  like  a  glory  crowned. 
Her  front  looked  on  the  Atlantic  shore: 
One  beckoning  hand,  outheld  before, 

Waved  welcome  to  the  world! 
And  one,  to  point  the  promised  ground 

She  proffered  to  her  guest, 
Turned  backward  to  th'  unmeasured  west, 
Whose  desert  wealth  of  soil  spread  widely  round, 

Still  spreading,  spreading,  till  the  roar 
'Of  sounding  seas  at  length  proclaimed  its  bound; 

Where,  heaving  without  rest, 
Pacific's  solemn  billows  curled, 
And  broke  unheard  along  the  lonely  shore! 

Then,  at  the  radiant  light 
Poured  lavish  from  her  presence  bright, 

The  mighty  crowd 

Of  gazing  nations,  awed,  with  homage  bowed; 
And  hailed,  with  paeans  hailed  the  fairest  queen, 
That  through  all  time  benighted  earth  had  seen, 
To  rule  her  race,  and  lead  to  glory  on: 

And  trebly  hailed  the  youthful  land, 

Whose  Heaven-directed  band 
Had  showed  the  world  how  Freedom  should  be  won! 

Thomas  Ward. 
[47] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

ASSUNPINK  AND  PRINCETON. 

January  2  and  3,  1777. 

Reprinted  by  permission  from  "The  Boys'  Book  of  Battle  Lyrics,". 
Copyright,  1885,  by  Harper  and  Bros. 

Glorious  the  day  when  in  arms  at  Assunpink 

And  after  at  Princeton  the  Briton  we  met ; 
Few  in  both  armies — they'd  skirmishes  call  them, 

Now  hundreds  of  thousands  in  battle  are  set. 
But  for  the  numbers  engaged,  let  me  tell  you, 

Smart  brushes  they  were,  and  two  battles  that  told; 
There  'twas  I  first  drew  bead  on  a  foeman — 

I,  a  mere  stripling,  not  twenty  years  old. 

Tell  it  ?     Well,  friends,  that  is  just  my  intention; 

There's  nothing  a  veteran  hates  and  abhors 
More  than  a  chance  lost  to  tell  his  adventures, 

Or  give  you  his  story  of  battles  and  wars. 
Nor  is  it  wonder  old  men  are  loquacious, 

And  talk,  if  you  listen,  from  sun  unto  sun; 
Youth  has  the  power  to  be  up  and  be  doing, 

While  age  can  but  tell  of  the  deeds  it  has  done. 

Ranged  for  a  mile  on  the  banks  of  Assunpink, 

There,  southward  of  Trenton,  one  morning  we  lay, 
When,  with  his  redcoats  all  marshalled  to  meet  us, 

Cornwallis  came  fiercely  at  close  of  the  day- 
Driving  some  scouts  who  had  gone  out  with  Longstreet, 

From  where  they  were  crossing  at  Shabbaconk  Run — 
Trumpets  loud  blaring,  drums  beating,  flags  flying — 

Three  hours,  by  the  clock,  before  setting  of  sun. 

Two  ways  were  left  them  by  which  to  assail  us, 

And  neither  was  perfectly  to  their  desire- 
One  was  the  bridge  we  controlled  by  our  cannon, 

The  other  the  ford  that  was  under  our  fire. 
"Death  upon  one  side,  and  Dismal  on  t'other,"      J 

Said  Sambo,  our  cook,  as  he  gazed  on  our  foes; 
Cheering  and  dauntless  they  marched  to  the  battle, 

And,  doubtful  of  choice,  both  the  dangers  they  chose. 

Down  at  the  ford,  it  was  said,  that  the  water 

Was  reddened  with  blood  from  the  soldiers  who  fell; 

[48] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


As  for  the  bridge,  where  they  tried  it,  their  forces 
Were  beaten  with  terrible  slaughter,  as  well. 

Grapeshot  swept  causeway,  and  pattered  on  water, 

And  riddled  their  columns,  that  broke  and  gave  way: 

Thrice  they  charged  boldly,  and  thrice  they  retreated; 
Then  darkness  came  down,  and  so  ended  the  fray. 

How  did  I  get  there?     I  came  from  our  corn-mill 

At  noon  of  the  day  when  the  battle  begun. 
Bringing  in  flour  to  the  troops  under  Proctor; 

'Twas  not  very  long  ere  that  errand  was  done. 
Up  to  that  time  I  had  never  enlisted, 

Though  Jacob,  my  brother,  had  entered  with  Wayne; 
But  the  fight  stirred  me ;  I  sent  back  the  horses, 

And  made  up  my  mind  with  the  rest  to  remain. 

We  camped  on  our  side — the  south — of  Assunpink, 

While  they    bivouacked  for  the  night  upon  theirs; 
Both  posting  sentries  and  building  up  watch  fires, 
With  those  on  both  sides  talking  over  affairs. 
"Washington's  caught  in  a  trap,"  said  Cornwallis, 

And  smiled  with  a  smile  that  was  joyous  and  grim; 
"Fox  !  but  I  have  him  !  " — the  earl  had  mistaken; 
The  fox,  by  the  coming  of  daylight,  had  him. 

Early  that  night,  when  the  leaders  held  council, 

Both  St.  Clair  and  Reed  said  our  action  was  clear 
Useless  to  strike  at  the  van  of  our  foemen — 

His  force  was  too  strong ;  we  must  fall  on  his  rear. 
Washington  thought  so,  and  bade  us  replenish . 

Our  watchfires  till  nearly  the  dawn  of  the  day ; 
Setting  some  more  to  make  feint  of  intrenching, 

While  swiftly  in  darkness  the  rest  moved  away. 

Marching  by  Sandtown,  and  Quaker  Bridge  crossing, 

We  passed  Stony  Creek  a  full  hour  before  dawn, 
Leaving  there  Mercer  with  one  scant  battalion 

Our  foes  to  amuse,  should  they  find  we  were  gone; 
Then  the  main  force  pushed  its  way  into  Princeton, 

All  ready  to  strike  those  who  dreamed  of  no  blow; 
Only  a  chance  that  we  lost  not  our  labor, 

And  slipped  through  our  fingers,  unknowing,  the  foe. 


Mawhood's  brigade,  never  feeling  its  danger, 

Had  started  for  Trenton  at  dawn  of  the  day; 


[49j 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Crossed  Stony  Creek,  after  we  had  gone  over, 

When   Mercer's   weak   force   they  beheld  on  its  way; 

Turning  contemptuously  back  to  attack  it, 

They  drove  it  with  ease  in  disorder  ahead — 

Firelocks  alone  were  no  match  for  their  cannon — 

A  fight,  and  then  flight,  and  brave  Mercer  lay  dead. 

Murdered,  some  said,  while  imploring  for  quarter — 

A  dastardly  deed — if  the  thing  had  been  tcue — 
Cruel  our  foes,  but  in  that  thing  we  wronged  them, 

And  let  us  in  all  give  the  demon  his  due. 
Gallant  Hugh  Mercer  fell  sturdily  fighting, 

So  long  as  his  right  arm  his  sabre  could  wield, 
Stretching  his  enemies  bleeding  around  him, 

And  then,  overpowered,  fell  prone  on  the  field. 

Hearing  the  firing,  we  turned  and  we  met  them, 

Our  cannon  replying  to  theirs  with  a  will ; 
Fiercely  with  grape  and  with  canister  swept  them , 

And  chased  them  in  wrath  from  the  brow  of  the  hill. 
Racing  and  chasing  it  was  into  Princeton, 

Where,  seeking  the  lore  to  be  taught  in  that  hall, 
Redcoats  by  scores  entered  college,  but  stayed  not — 

We  rudely  expelled  them  with  powder  and  ball. 

Only  a  skirmish,  you  see,  though  a  sharp  one — 

It  did  not  last  over  the  fourth  of  an  hour ; 
But  'twas  a  battle  that  did  us  this  service — 

No  more,  from  that  day,  had  we  fear  of  their  power. 
Trenton  revived  us,  Assunpink  encouraged, 

But  Princeton  gave  hope  that  we  held  to  the  last; 
Floodtide  had  come  on  the  black  sullen  water, 

And  ebbtide  forever  and  ever  had  passed 

Yes  !  'twas  the  turn  of  the  tide  in  our  favor — 

A  turn  of  the  tide  to  a  haven  that  bore. 
Had  Lord  Cornwallis  crossed  over  Assunpink 

That  day  we  repelled  him,  our  fighting  were  o'er. 
Had  he  o'ertaken  us  ere  we  smote  Mawhood, 

All  torn  as  we  were,  it  seems  certain  to  me, 
I  would  not  chatter  to  you  about  battles, 

And  you  and  your  children  would  not  have  been  free. 

Thomas  Dunn  English. 
[SO] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

THE  JERSEY  ROAD. 

January  2,  1777. 

It  was  years  ago.     Two  armies  lay 
Encamped  at  night  near  the  king's  highway 
Leading  from  Princeton  to  Trenton  down, 
When  Whigs  fought  fiercely  the  British  Crown. 
Twas  a  winter  thaw — it  was  raw  and  damp 
To  the  Yankee  Council  in  Trenton  camp. 
Washington's  veterans  shook  their  heads, 
"We  are  trapped  it  seems  by  the  cursed  Reds, 
We  must  fight — there's  no  other  way  to  do," 
But  the  General  calmly  around  him  drew 
The  great  gray  cloak  that  they  so  well  knew 
And  into  the  outer  darkness  strode 
Till  he  reached  the  fence  by  the  Jersey  road. 

That  Jersey  road!     'Twas  a  sight  to  see! 

The  mire  was  up  to  a  horse's  knee; 

As  the  British  knew,  when  on  yonder  steep, 

In  their  tents,  they  sank  into  peaceful  sleep 

And  dreamed  of  victory  won  with  ease 

On  the  morrow  with  raw  recruits  like  these. 

In  front — the  enemy,  fixed  and  fast; 

Around — deep  roads  that  could  not  be  passed; 

Behind,  the  Delaware,  wild  and  black, 

Like  an  angered  snake  was  in  his  track ; 

The  patriot  army  could  not  go  back. 

Was  Washington  crushed  by  the  awful  load? 

Nay.     He  knelt  and  prayed  by  the  Jersey  road. 

History  tells  what  happened  then, 

How  right  in  the  view  of  his  anxious  men 

The  sleet  storm  ceased  and  the  stars  came  forth, 

With  a  sharp  wind  out  of  the  ice-bound  North; 

How,  almost  before  the  prayer  was  done, 

The  answer  came  and  escape  was  won ; 

How  out  of  reach  of  the  frowning  hosts 

The  handful  of  patriots  moved  like  ghosts 

Leaving  their  fires  to  burn  till  day, 

The  British  thinking  the  rebels  lay 

In  the  jaws  of  battle,  an  easy  prey, 

|si:L 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Nor  dreamed  the  truth  that  the  morning  showed 
How  Heaven  had  hardened  the  Jersey  road. 

Anonymous. 
From  the  Good  Roads  Magazine,  Copyrighted. 


"The  march  of  the  army  had  been  rendered  much  more  expedi 
tious,  than  it  could  otherwise  have  been,  by  a  fortunate  change  of  weath 
er.  On  the  evening  of  the  second,  it  became  excessively  cold,  and  the 
roads  which  had  become  soft,  were  rendered  as  hard  as  pavement." — 
John  Marshall,  in  his  Life  of  Washington. 

"Providence  favors  the  manoeuver.  The  weather  having  been 
for  two  days  warm,  moist  and  foggy,  the  ground  is  become  quite  soft, 
and  the  roads  to  be  passed  so  deep,  that  it  will  be  extremely  difficult,  if 
practicable,  to  get  on  with  the  cattle,  carriages,  and  artillery.  But 
while  the  council  is  sitting,  the  wind  suddenly  changes  to  the  north 
west,  and  it  freezes  so  hard,  that  by  the  time  the  troops  are  ready  to  move, 
they  pass  on  as  though  upon  a  solid  pavement." — William  Gordon  in 
History  of  the  American  Revolution. 


WASHINGTON  AT  PRINCETON. 

January  3,  1777 

On,  to  the  battle's  front 

Rides  the  undaunted  chief; 
On,  past  his  quailing  troops, 
On,  towards  the  charging  foe; 
Halts  there  umnovable. 

Well  know  his  wavering  men 
What  means  that  last  appeal, — 

"Rally,  boys,  rally  !" 
Full  in  the  battle's  brunt 
There  stands  their  dauntless  chief 
While  forms  the  foeman's  line: — 

'Ready  !  Aim  !  Fire  ! 

— the   dread 
Roar  of  their  musketry 
Answers  to  ours, — the  smoke 
Hides  him  we  love — 

O  God! 

rapped  in  that  murky  cloud 
hat  sight  awaits  our  gaze? 

\52\ 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Has  he  too  fallen,  pierced, — 
Pierced  by  the  deadly  shot 
Hurled  in  by  friend  and  foe? — 

Ha  !  see — the  foe  is  flying. 
While  mid  the  dead  and  dying 
We  hail  our  hero  chief 
Scatheless  beyond  belief — 
"  Thank  God  /" — 

"Away,   away! 
On,  on  !  and  win  the  day  !" 

Charles  D.  Plait. 

From  Ballads  of  New  Jersey  in  the  Revolution,  by  permission  of 
Charles  D.  Platt;  copyright,  1896. 


WASHINGTON  AT  PRINCETON 

January  3,  177 

The  Assunpink  was  choked  with  dead 

Between  us  and  the  foe; 
We  had  mowed  their  ranks  before  our  guns, 

As  ripe  grain  is  laid  low; 
But  we  were  few  and  worn  and  spent — 

Many  and  strong  were  they, 
And  they  waited  but  the  morning  dawn 

To  fall  upon  their  prey. 

We  left  our  camp-fires  burning 

That  their  ruddy  gleaming  light 
Might  hide  from  Lord  Cornwallis 

Our  hurried  march  by  night. 
While  fiery  Erskine  fretted 

At  his  leader's  fond  delay, 
All  silently  and  swiftly 

We  were  marching  on  our  way. 

For  the  British  troops  at  Princeton, 

Our  little  force  was  bound, 
We  tracked  with  bare  and  bleeding  feet 

The  rough  and  frozen  ground ; 
All  night  we  hastened  onward, 

And  we  spoke  no  word  of  plaint; 

[53] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Tho  we  were  chilled  with  bitter  cold, 
With  toil  and  fasting  faint. 

We  hailed  with  joy  the  sunlight 

As  o'er  the  hills  it  streamed 
And  through  the  sharp  and  frosty  air 

On  the  near  homesteads  beamed. 
We  were  weary,  we  were  hungry;. 

Before  us  lay  good  cheer, 
And  right  gladly  to  the  hearth-fires 

Our  eager  steps  drew  near. 

But  sudden  on  our  startled  sight 

Long  lines  of  bayonets  flashed; 
The  road's  aglow  with  scarlet  coats  ! 

The  British  on  us  dash  ! 
The  smoke-wreaths  from  our  volleys  meet; 

Then  hand  to  hand  the  fight; 
Proud  gallant  Mercer  falls;  our  lines 

Are  wavering  in  flight  ! 

"Press  on  !  "  cried  Mawhood,  "by  St.  George, 

The  rebel  cowards  fly ;  '  «| 

We'll  sweep  their  ranks  before  our  charge 

As  storm-winds  from  the  sky." 
They  burst  with  bold  and  sudden  spring 

As  a  lion  on  the  prey; 
Our  ranks  of  worn  and  wearied  men 

To  that  fierce  rush  gave  way. 

Black  was  the  bitter  moment, 

And  well  nigh  all  was  lost; 
But  forth  there  sprang  a  god-like  form 

Between  us  and  the  host. 
The  martyr  fires  of  freedom 

In  his  flaming  glances  burned, 
As  his  awful  countenance  sublime 

Upon  the  foe  he  turned; 
And  reining  in  his  gallant  steed 

Alone  amid  the  fight, 
Like  an  angel  of  the  Lord  he  stood 

To  our  astonished  sight  ! 
And  instantly  our  wavering  bands 

Wheeled  into  line  again, 
And  suddenly  from  either  side 

The  death-shots  fell  like  rain. 


[54] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


All  hearts  stood  still;  and  horror-struck 

Was  each  averted  eye, 
For  who  could  brook  that  moment's  look? 

Or  who  could  see  him  die? 
But  when  the  smoke-clouds  lifted, 

And  still  we  saw  him  there, 
Oh,  what  a  mighty  shout  of  joy 

Filled  all  the  startled  air  ! 
And  tears  fell  like  the  summer  showers 

From  our  bravest  and  our  best, 
As  dashing  up  with  fiery  pace 

Around  him  close  they  prest. 

A  moment's  hand-grasp  to  his  Aide, 
That  told  the  tale  of  hours, 

"Away,  bring  up  the  troops,"  he  cried, 
"The  day  is  wholly  ours;" 

"Now  praised  be  God,"  from  grateful  lips 
The  fervent  prayer  uprose, 

And  then,  as  with  an  eagle's  swoop, 
We  burst  upon  our  foes, 

And  "Long  live   Washington  !  "  we  cried 

In  answer  to  his  shout, 
And  still  he  spurred  his  charger  on 

Amid  the  flying  rout. 
They  broke  their  ranks  before  our  charge, 

Amain  they  wildly  fled; 
Stiff  on  the  slopes  at  Princeton 

They  left  their  hapless  dead. 

No  more  a  band  of  weary  men, 

We  followed  in  his  track 
And  bore  with  stern  resistless  force 

The  British  Lion  back; 
Our  toilsome  march,  our  sleepless  nights, 

Cold,  hunger, — what  were  they? 
We  broke  the  yoke  of  foreign  power 

On  that  eventful  day. 

The  great  heart  of  our  leader 

Went  on  before  us  then, 
And  led  us  forth  to  wield  the  strength 

Of  more  than  mortal  men; 


[55] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  pulses  of  that  noble  heart 
A  nation's  life  concealed, 

But  fate  refused  the  sacrifice 
Whose  offer  won  the  field. 


Caroline  F.  Orne. 


GENERAL  MERCER  AT  PRINCETON. 

From  Ballads  of  New  Jersey  in  the  Revolution;  by  permission  of 
Charles    D.    Platt;   copyright    1896. 

Here  Mercer  fell,  with  bayonet-pierced  breast, 
Facing  his  country's  foes  upon  the  field, 
Scorning    to    cry    for    quarter    or    to    yield, 

Though  single-handed  left  and    sore  opprest 

He,  at  his  chosen  country's  high  behest, 

Was  set  to  be  a  leader  and  to  shield 

Her    threatened    life — with    his    heart's    blood    he  sealed 
That  trust,  nor  faltered  till  he  sank  to  rest. 

Mourn  not  for  him ;  say  not  untimely  death 

Snatched  him  from  fame  ere  we  could  know  his  worth 

And  hid  the  lustre  of  a  glorious  name ; 
Such  souls  go  forth,  when  fails  their  vital  breath, 

To  shine  as  beacons  through  the  mists  of  earth 

And  kindle  in  men's  hearts  the  heroic  flame. 

Charles  D.  Platt. 


TO  HIS  EXCELLENCY  GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 

A  Song  of  Victory  and  a  Prophecy. 

Say — on  what  hallowed  altar  shall  I  find 
A  sacred  spark  that  can  again  light  up 
The  Muse's  ardor  in  my  wane  of  life, 
And  warm  my  bosom  with  poetic  flame 
Extinguished  long — and  yet,  O  Washington, 
Thy  worth  unequalled,  thy  heroic  deeds, 
Thy  patriot  virtues,  and  high-soaring  fame, 
Prompt  irresistibly  my  feeble  arm 
To  grasp  the  long-forgotten  lyre  and  join 
The  universal  chorus  of  thy  praise. 


[56] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

When  urged  by  thirst  of  arbitrary  sway 

And  over- weaning  pride,  a  ruthless  king 

Grim  spurned  us,  suppliants,  from  his  haughty  throne, 

And  in  the  tyrant  all  the  father  lost ; 

When  to  our  prayers,  with  humble  duty  urged, 

He,  Pharoah-like,  his  heart  obdurate  steeled, 

Denouncing  dreadful  vengeance,  unprovoked, 

And  all  the  dire  calamities  of  war — 

No  ray  of  mercy  beaming  from  his  brow, 

No  olive-branch  extended  in  his  hand; — 

A  sword  unsheathed,  or  ignominious  yoke, 

The  only  sad  alternative  proposed — 

Then  with  one  voice  thy  country  called  thee  forth, 

Thee,  Washington,  she  called: — With  modest  blush, 

But  soul  undaunted,  thou  the  call  obeyedst, 

To  lead  her  armies  to  the  martial  field. — 

Thee,  Washington,  she  called  to  draw  the  sword, 

And  rather  try  the  bloody  chance  of  war 

In  virtue's  cause  than  suffer  servile  chains, 

Intolerable  bondage!     to  inclose 

The  limbs  of  those  whom  God  created  free. 

Lured  by  thy  fame,  and  with  thy  virtues  charmed, 

And  by  thy  valor  fired,  around  thee  poured 

America's  long-injured  sons,  resolved 

To  meet  the  veteran  troops  who  oft  had  borne 

Britannia's  name,  in  thunder,  round  the  world. 

With  warrior-bands  by  Liberty  impelled, 

And  all  their  country  glowing  at  their  heart ; 

And  prodigal  of  blood,  when  she  required, 

Tho'  destitute  of  war's  essential  aids, 

(The  well-stored  armory,  the  nitrous  grain 

The  roaring  cannon,  and  death-bearing  ball) 

Thou  madest  the  solemn  dread  appeal  to  heaven, — 

The  solemn  dread  appeal  the  Almighty  heard, 

And  smiled  success.     Unfabled  Astrea  weighed 

Our  cause  in  her  eternal  scales,  and  found 

It  just;  while  all-directing  Providence, 

Invisible,  yet  seen,  mysterious,  crowned, 

And  more  than  crowned  our  hopes;  and  strange  to  tell! 

Made   British   infidels,   like   Lucifer, 

Believe  and  tremble.     Thou  with  troops  new-raised 

Undisciplined ;  nor  to  the  tented  field 

Inured,  hast  kept  the  hostile  host  aloof; 

And  oft  discomfited;  while  victory 

[57] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  laurel  wreath  around  thy  temples  twined; 
And  Trenton,  Princeton  prove  thy  bold  emprize; 
Names  then  unknown  to  song,  illustrious  now, 
Deriving  immortality   from   thee. 

Proceed,  heaven-guided  Chief,  nor  be  dismayed 

At  foreign  myriads,  or  domestic  foes 

(The  best  have  foes,  and  foes  evince  their  worth) ; 

Soon  by  one  danger  roused,  one  soul  inspired, 

One  cause  defending,  on  one  goal  intent, 

From  every  quarter  whence  the  winds  can  blow, 

Assembled  hosts  their  Hero  shall  attend, 

Determined  to  be  free—Them  shalt  thou  lead, 

To  conquest  lead,  and  make  the  tyrant  rue 

His  execrable  purpose  to  enslave; 

And  teach  e'en  British  folly  to  be  wise. 

Far  as  the  encircling  sun  his  chariot  drives, 

Thy  fame  shall  spread;  thy  grateful  country  own 

Her  millions  saved  by  thy  victorious  arm ; 

And  rear  eternal  monuments  of  praise. 

The  arduous  task  absolved,  the  truncheon  broken, 

Of  future  glory,  liberty  and  peace 

The  strong  foundations  laid,  methinks  I  see 

The  god-like  Hero  gracefully  retire 

And  (blood-stained  Mars  for  fair  Pomona  changed) 

His  rural  seat  regain :     His  rural  seat 

Fresh-blooming  at  his  visitation,  smiles; 

And  in  expressive  silence  speaks  her  joy. 

There,  recollecting  oft  thy  past  exploits, 

(Feast  of  the  soul  ne'er  cloying  appetite), 

And  still  assiduous  for  the  public  weal 

(Incumbent  duty  ne'er  effaced)  .amidst 

Sequestered  haunts,  and  in  the  calm  of  life, 

Methinks  I  see  thee,  Solon-like,  design 

The  future  grandeur  of  confederate  States 

High  towering;  or  for  legislation  met, 

Adjust  in  senate  what  thou  savedst  in  war. 

And  when  by  thousands  wept,  thou  shalt  resign 

Thy  sky-infused  and  sky-returning  spark, 

May  light  supernal  gild  thy  mortal  hour, 

But  mortal  to  translate  thee  into  life 

That  knows  not  death ;  and  then  heaven's  all-ruling  Sire 

Shall  introduce  thee  to  thy  glad  compeers, 


[58] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


The  Hampdens,  Sidneys,  Freedom's  genuine  sons! 
And  Brutus'  venerable  shade,  high-raised 
On  thrones  erected  in  the  taste  of  heav'n, 
Distinguished  thrones  for  patriot  demi-gods 
(Who  for  their  country's  weal  or  toiled,  or  bled), 
And  one  reserved  for  thee:     There  envy's  shafts 
Nor  tyrants  e'er  intrude,  nor  slavery  clanks 
Her  galling  chain;  but  star-crowned  Liberty 
Resplendent  goddess!  everlasting  reigns. 

Gov.  William  Livingston. 


This  address  was  published  in  Collins's  New  Jersey  Gazette,  above 
the  signature  of  Hortentius,  on  April  1,  1778.  Observe  the  date  of  the 
publication  of  these  lines;  and  then  notice  the  prophetic  words  of  Gov. 
Livingston,  words  which  were  so  happily  fulfilled  in  the  subsequent 
course  of  our  nation's  history.  This  poem,  written  by  the  Governor  of 
New  Jersey,  was  the  first  of  its  class  to  appear  in  any  American  newspaper 
and  forms  the  opening  note  in  a  still-continuing  chorus  of  poetical  praise 
addressed  to  George  Washington. 


GO  ON  ILLUSTRIOUS  CHIEF. 

Lines  addressed  to  General  Washington. 
Written  at  Princeton,  N.  J.,  March  7,  1778. 

Go  on  illustrious  Chief!     to  lead  thy  chosen  bands, 
With  increased  numbers,  to  the  field  of  Mars; 
There  snatching  victory  from  the  British  foe, 
Give  peace  and  plenty  to  a  bleeding  land. 
Then — Heaven  approving  thy  exalted  deeds, 
While  grateful  millions  hail  thee  father,  friend- 
Return  with  laurels  to  thy  happy  mount, 
And  taste  anew  the  sweets  of  private  life. 
Rekindled  in  thy  breast,  the  pure,  the  tender  flame, 
Endeared  by  wedlock's  holy,  sacred  rites, 
Enjoy,  in  social  converse  and  connubial  love, 
The  most  enrapturing  charms  that  e'er  adorned  the  fair. 

When  all  the  earthly  joys  that  mortals  can  possess 
Or  heaven  bestow  on  patriotic  minds 
Shall  cease  to  please;  and  thy  great  soul, 
Impatient  of  delay,  shall  burst  the  brittle  shell 
Which  holds  it  here — expanded  as  the  light  of  morn 

[59] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Oh!     mayest  thou  then  ascend  on  wings  seraphic 

To  thy  native  skies:     where  smiling  angels, 

Crowding  to  behold  the  conquering  Hero, 

Shall  lead  thee,  all  immortal,  all  divine, 

Up  to  the  throne  of  God;  there,  freed  from  all  thy  toils 

On  earth,  and  crowned  with  never-fading  glory, 

Eternity  itself  employed  shall  make  thee  happy. 

John  Withers  poon. 


ROOM   FOR   AMERICA. 

A  Camp  Ballad  Written  in  1 7  7  7 . 

When  Washington  retreated  across  the  Jerseys  and  took  refuge 
behind  the  Delaware,  his  soldiers  were  in  despair;  but  the  glorious  cam 
paign  of  Trenton  and  Princeton  called  forth  from  every  patriot  a  shout 
of  ^exultation. 

A  new  nation  had  been  established  on  the  earth  and  it  was  this  glad 
thought  that  inspired  Francis  Hopkinson  to  write  this  camp  ballad,  a 
song  which  became  at  once  a  favorite  throughout  all  the  colonies,  not  only 
in  the  camp  but  at  the  fireside. 

Make  room,  oh!  ye  kingdoms  in  n  story  renowned, — 
Whose  arms  have  in  battle  with  glory  been  crowned, — 
Make  room  for  America, — another  great  nation 
Arising  to  claim  in  your  council  a  station. 

Her  sons  fought  for  freedom,  and  by  their  own  bravery 
Have  rescued  themselves  from  the  shackles  of  slavery. 
America's  free,  and  tho*  Britain  abhored  it, 
Yet  Fame  a  new  volume  prepares  to  record  it. 

Fair  Freedom  in  Britain  her  throne  had  erected; 
But  her  sons  growing  venal  and  she  disrepected, 
The  goddess  offended  forsook  the  base  nation, 
And  fixed  on  our  mountains  a  more  honored  station. 

With  glory  immortal  she  here  sits  enthroned, 
Nor  fears  the  vain  vengeance  of  Britain  disowned; 
Whilst  Washington  guards  her,  with  heroes  surrounded, 
Her  foes  shall  with  shameful  defeat  be  confounded. 

it, 

To  arms,  then  to  arms!     'tis  fair  freedom  invites  us; 
The  trumpet  shrill- sounding  to  battle  excites  us; 
The  banners  of  virtue  unfurled  shall  wave  o'er  us. 
Our  heroes  lead  on,  and  the  foe  fly  before  us. 

[60] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


On  Heaven  and  Washington  placing  reliance, 
We'll  meet  the  bold  Briton  and  bid  him  defiance; 
Our  cause  we'll  support,  for  'tis  just  and  'tis  glorious — 
When  men  fight  for  freedom,  they  must  be  victorious. 

Francis  Hopkinson. 


GREAT  NEWS  FROM  THE  JERSEYS. 

How  England  Received  the  News  from  Trenton  and  Princeton. 

This  ballad,  under  the  guise  of  classical  mythology,  tells  how  the 
news  of  Washington's  masterly  campaign  in  the  Jerseys  was  received  in 
monarchial  England.  The  song  takes  its  title  from  our  State  because  it 
was  here  that  Washington  won  the  marvelous  victories  of  Trenton  and 
Princeton.  It  expresses  the  unbounded  joy  and  exultation  of  the  Ameri 
cans  at  the  recovery  of  the  Jerseys  in  January,  1777.  Written  immediate 
ly  after  the  battle  of  Princeton,  this  song  at  once  became  a  favorite  both 
among  the  soldiers  and  among  the  people;  and  no  wonder,  for  it  is  a  re 
markably  strong  assertion  that  the  new-born  Republic  was  a  world- 
power. 

Mars  and  Bellona  as  king  and  queen  represent  Monarchy,  and  th 
attendant  gods  are  the  aristocrats  surrounding  their  throne. 

Columbia,  a  spirit  of  liberty  mightier  than  the  classical  Jove,  de 
scends  from  heaven  to  introduce  Democracy  among  the  nations  She 
selects  Washington  as  her  champion,  endows  him  with  ample  power  and 
commissions  him  to  establish  a  Free  Government  on  the  earth. 

The  issue  between  despotism  and  freedom  is  fought  to  a  finish  in 
the  Jerseys,  the  cause  of  Monarchy  suffering  irretrievable  ruin  at  Trenton, 
Assunpink  and  Princeton. 

The  fierceness  of  this  conflict,  depicted  by  the  thunders  and  light 
nings  of  a  terrific  storm  in  the  west,  startles  Mars  and  Bellona  who  in 
alarm  and  dread  send  their  attendants  to  ascertain  the  cause.  The 
messengers  look  toward  America  and  behold  Howe's  battle  lines  recoiling 
before  Washington  in  the  Jerseys;  and  returning  they  report  that  Wash 
ington  sustained  by  Freedom  is  irresistable.  Mars  recognizes  his  doom 
and  is  only  able  to  stammer  out,  "Can  this  be  true?"  And  then  the  sons 
of  Columbia  thunder  in  the  closing  chorus: 

"Freedom  shall  triumph  in  the  field 
And  rule  from  pole  to  pole." 


As  Mars,  great  god  of  battles,  lay 
In  dalliance  soft  and  amorous  play 

On  fair  Bellona's  breast, 
Surprised  he  reared  his  hoary  head; 
The  conscious  goddess  shook  with  dread 

And  all  her  fears  confessed. 


[61} 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Loud  thunder  rolled  through  Heaven's  domain, 
The  ethereal  world  was  wrapped  in  flame, 

The  god  amazed  spoke: 
"Go  forth,  ye  powers,  and  make  known, 
Who  dares  thus  boldly  shake  my  throne, 

And  fill  my  realms  with  smoke." 

The  gods,  obsequioxis  to  his  word, 
Sprang  swiftly  forth  to  obey  their  lord 

And  saw  two  hosts  away; 
The  one,  great  Washington,  was  thine; 
The  other,  Howe's  disordered  line 

In  sorrow  and  dismay. 

Apalled  they  viewed  Columbia's  sons 
Deal  death  and  slaughter  from  their  guns 

And  strike  a  dreadful  blow, 
Which  made  ill-fated  British  slaves 
On  distant  shores  to  find  their  graves 

And  sing  to  shades  below. 

Amazed  they  tell  of  battles  won, 
That  Britain's  ruined;  Washington 

Alone  triumphant  rode. 
"Ha  !  "  cries  the  fair,  "pray  who  is  he 
That  dares  reverse  e'en  Jove's  decree 

And  thus  insult  a  god  ?  " 

The  gods  reply,  "In  yonder  lands, 
Great  Liberty  alone  commands 

And  gives  the  hero  force; 
And  when  his  thundering  cannons  roar 
And  strike  with  dread  earth's  distant  shore, 

'Tis  she  directs  their  course." 

"And  when  her  winged  bullets  fly 
To  check  a  tyrant's  treachery 

And  lay  his  glory  low; 
Then  Washington,  serenely  great 
Tho  death  and  courage  round  him  wait, 

Performs  the  dreadful  blow." 


162] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

The  god  with  wonder  heard  the  story, 
Astonished  viewed  Columbia's  glory 

(Which  time  can  ne'er  subdue — 
Great  Warren's  deeds  and  Gates's  fame 
Joined  to  great  Lee's  immortal  name,) 
And  cried,  "Can  this  be  true  ?  " 

Britain  shall  cease  to  plague  mankind, 
With  sister  tyrants  cease  to  bind 

And  check  the  free-born  soul; 
To  Washington  her  trophies  yield 
Freedom  shall  triumph  in  the  field 

And  rule  from  pole  to  pole. 


Anonymous 


Howe's  disordered  line  In  sorrow  and  dismay. — A  fine  touch,  the 
line  of  British  cantonments  stretched  along  the  Delaware  from  Maiden 
head  (now  Lawrenceville),  to  Mount  Holly  and  Black  Horse;  but  after 
the  affair  at  Trenton  all  these  posts  were  precipitately  abandoned,  and 
Howe  postponed  his  triumphal  visit  to  London. 

•'Ha!"  cries  the  fair,  "fray,  who  is  heV — They  begrudged  Washing 
ton  the  title  of  General ;  and  it  was  always  a  mystery  to  them  how  farmers 
shoemakers,  blacksmiths  and  tanners  could  be  such  able  military  men. 

The  effect  of  Washington's  masterly  movements  was  electrical. 
It  became  deeply  impressed  on  the  minds  of  the  people  that  news  from 
New  Jersey  meant  good  news;  and  for  more  than  a  generation  there  after, 
good  news,  unexpectedly  received  from  any  place  concerning  any  matter, 
was  greeted  with  the  current  proverb,  "Great  News  from  The  Jerseys." 

The  Jerseys  is  a  parody  on  a  song  called  The  Watery  God  which  had 
been  very  popular,  both  in  England  and  in  America.  The  watery  God 
was  Neptune,  the  god  of  the  sea;  and  the  poem  represented  him  as  sur 
rendering  his  trident,  the  symbol  of  his  power,  to  King  George  of  England. 

As  Neptune  in  the  old  poem  was  compelled  to  surrender  all  sea- 
power  to  England,  so  Mars,  the  god  of  war,  was  compelled  in  the  new 
poem  by  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  to  surrender  the  supreme  military  power 
into  the  hands  of  George  Washington  as  the  champion  of  the  youthful 
American  nation. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  assume  that  the  men  of  1776  did  not  know  that 
the  United  States  was  to  become  a  world-power.  It  is  true  they  did 
not  dream  of  acquiring  colonial  possessions  beyond  the  sea;  but  they  did 
believe  that  they  were  fighting  for  the  rights  of  mankind  and  for  the  es 
tablishment  of  democratic  government  among  the  nations,  truly  a  new 
thing  under  the  sun ;  and  they  did  believe  that  future  ages,  imitating  the 
example  of  America,  would  see  every  monarchy  in  the  world  complete 
ly  overthrown  and  replaced  by  a  righteous  democracy. 

[63] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

THE  BIRDS,  THE  BEASTS  AND  THE  BAT, 

A  Fable. 

Written  in  1777 

In  this  allegory,  the  Beasts  represent  the  British ;  the  Birds  repre 
sent  the  American  patriots;  and  the  Eagle,  the  leader  of  the  Birds,  repre 
sents  General  Washington.  The  Bat  represents  the  time-serving  turn 
coat,  the  detestable  trimmer,  who  keeps  changing  from  one  party  to 
the  other  in  order  to  be  on  the  winning  side. 

When  the  Americans  drive  the  British  out  of  Boston,  the  Bat 
claims  to  be  a  bird;  when  the  Americans  are  defeated  on  Long  Island,  the 
Bat  deserts  to  the  British  camp  and  argues  that  he  is  a  Beast ;  and  finally 
when  the  Americans  are  victorious  at  Trenton  and  Princeton,  the  Bat  re 
turns  to  the  American  camp  and  tries  to  make  out  that  he  is  a  Bird. 

A  war  broke  out  in  former  days, 
If  all  is  true  that  Aesop  says, 
Between  the  birds  that  haunt  the  grove, 
And  beasts  that  wild  in  forest  rove: 
Of  fowl  that  swim  in  water  clear, 
Of  birds  that  mount  aloft  in  air, 
From  every  tribe  vast  numbers  came 
To  fight  for  freedom,  as  for  fame: 
The  beasts  from  dens  and  caverns  deep, 
From  valleys  low  and  mountains  steep 
In  motley  ranks  determined  stood, 
And  dreadful  howlings  shook  the  wood. 

The  bat,  half-bird,  half-beast,  was  there, 
Nor  would  for  this  or  that  declare ; 
Waiting  till  conquest  should  decide 
Which  was  the  strongest,  safest  side: 
Depending  on  his  doubtful  form 
To  screen  him  from  the  impending  storm. 

With  sharpened  beaks  and  talons  long, 
With  horny  spurs  and  pinions  strong, 
The  birds  in  fierce  assault,  'tis  said, 
Amongst  the  foe  such  havoc  made 
That  panic-struck  the  beasts  retreat 
Amazed,  and  victory  seemed  complete. 
The  observant  bat,  with  squeaking  tone, 
Cries,  "Bravo,  birds,  the  day's  our  own; 
For  now  I'm  proud  to  claim  a  place 
Amongst  your  bold  aspiring  race; 
With  leathern  wings  I  skim  the  air, 
And  am  a  bird  tho'  clad  in  hair." 

[64] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


But  now  the  beasts,  ashamed  of  flight, 
With  rallied  force  renew  the  fight, 
With  threatening  teeth,  uplifted  paws, 
Projecting  horns  and  spreading  claws, 
Enraged  advance — push  on  the  fray, 
And  claim  the  honors  of  the  day. 

The  bat  still  hovering  to  and  fro 
Observed  how  things  were  like  to  go, 
Concludes  those  best  who  best  can  fight. 
And  thinks  the  strongest  party  right; 
"Push  on,"  quoth  he,  "ours  is  the  day; 
We'll  chase  these  rebel  birds  away, 
And  reign  supreme — for  who  but  we 
Of  earth  and  air  the  Lords  should  be ; 
That  I'm  a  beast  I  can  make  out, 
By  reasons  strong  beyond  a  doubt, 
With  teeth  and  fur  'twould  be  absurd 
To  call  a  thing  like  me  a  bird ; 
Each  son  and  daughter  of  my  house 
Is  styled  at  least  a  flying  mouse.  " 

Always  uncertain  is  the  fate 
Of  war  and  enterprises  great: 
The  beasts  exulting  pushed  too  far 
Their  late  advantage  in  the  war; 
Sure  of  success,  insult  the  foe, 
Despise  their  strength  and  careless  grow; 
The  birds  not  vanquished,  but  dismayed, 
Collect  their  force,  new  powers  displayed 
Their  chief,  the  eagle,  leads  them  on, 
And  with  fierce  rage  the  war's  begun. 
Now  in  their  turn  the  beasts  must  yield 
The  bloody  laurels  of  the  field; 
Routed  they  fly,  disperse,  divide, 
And  in  their  native  caverns  hide. 

Once  more  the  bat  with  courtly  voice, 
"Hail,  noble  birds!     much  I  rejoice 
In  your  success,  and  come  to  claim 
My  share  of  conquest  and  of  fame." 

The  birds  the  faithless  wretch  despise; 
'Hence,  traitor,  hence!"     the  eagle  cries, 
"No  more,  as  you  just  vengeance  fear, 
Amongst  our  honored  ranks  appear." 

[65] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  bat,  disowned,  in  some  old  shed 
Now  seeks  to  hide  his  exiled  head ; 
Nor  dares  his  leathern  wings  display 
From  rising  morn  to  setting  day; 
But  when  the  gloomy  shades  of  night 
Screen  his  vile  form  from  every  sight, 
Despised,   unnoticed,   flits  about; 
Then  to  his  dreary  cell  returns 
And  his  just  fate  in  silence  mourns. 

Francis  Hopkinson. 


RETREAT  OF  THE  BRITISH  ARMY. 

The  Retreat  of  the  British  Army  from  Philadelphia  to  Sandy  Hook. 

The  news  of  the  French  alliance  reached  Washington  at  Valley 
Forge  the  first  week  in  May,  1778.  The  expected  arrival  in  Dela 
ware  bay  of  the  French  fleet  compelled  the  British  army  under  General 
Clinton  to  evacuate  Philadelphia;  Clinton  withdrew  by  way  of  Haddon- 
field,  Mount  Holly  and  Freehold,  and  reached  Sandy  Hook  on  June  30th, 
where  he  embarked  his  army  for  New  York  city.  It  was  during  this  march 
that  the  battle  of  Monmouth  was  fought  on  Sunday,  June  28.  1778. 

The  joyful  news  soon  spread  throughout  the  host 

That  friendly  fleets  were  cruising  off  the  coast, 

Charged  with  commission  to  block  up  the  foe 

And  crush  the  British  by  one  single  blow! 

Nor  missed  it  much — few  days  had  sealed  their  doom, 

Had  they  not  left  the  spacious  town  so  soon. 

But  Clinton,  fearful  of  some  dangerous  scheme, 

Passed  o'er  the  river,  and  to  Jersey  came: 

Clinton  was  chief  and  held  supreme  command, 

Since  Howe  inglorious  sought  his  native  land. 

To  the  sea-shore  the  army  took  its  way; 
The  Jersey  troops  retard  their  furious  way. 
Columbia's  host  now  press  the  British  rear, 
Drive  in  their  scouts  and  fill  their  souls  with  fear. 
On  Monmouth's  plains  where  Lee  in  duty  failed, 
The  British  force  and  discipline  prevailed: 
Night's  sable  curtain  lent  her  powerful  aid- 
Under  her  ample  covering  they  parade. 
Then  swiftly  march:     fear  lends  her  nimble  wings; 
The  morn  arrives,  the  joyous  Briton  sings. 
Lo!  the  tall  ships  appear  as  groves  of  trees, 
Supinely  waving  to  each  gentle  breeze. 

A  New  Jersey  Farmer. 
An  extract  from  The  Columbiad,  a  poem  attributed  to  John  Branson. 

[66] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

THE    BATTLE    OF    MONMOUTH. 

June  28,  1778. 

From  Boys'  Book  of  Battle  Lyrics,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 
Copyright  1885. 

Four-and-eighty  years  are  o'er  me; 
Great-grandchildren  sit  before  me ; 
These  my  locks  are  white  and  scanty ; 

And  my  limbs  are  weak  and  worn; 
Yet  I've  been  where  cannons  roaring, 
Firelocks  rattling,  blood  out-pouring, 
Stirred  the  souls  of  patriot  soldiers, 

On  the  tide  of  battle  borne; 
Where  they  told  me  I  was  bolder 
Far  than  many  a  comrade  older, 
Though  a  stripling  in  that  fight 
For  the  right. 

All  that  sultry  day  in  summer 

Beat  his  sullen  march  the  drummer, 

Where  the  Briton  strode  the  dusty  road 

Until  the  sun  went  down; 
Then  on  Monmouth  plain  encamping, 
Tired  and  foot-sore  with  the  tramping, 
Lay  all  wearily  and  drearily 

The  forces  of  the  crown, 

With  their  resting  horses  neighing 

And  their  evening  bugles  playing 

And  their  sentries  pacing  slow 

To  and  fro. 

Ere  the  day  to  night  had  shifted, 
Camp  was  broken,  knapsacks  lifted, 
And  in  motion  was  the  vanguard 

Of  our  swift-retreating  foes; 
Grim  Knyphausen  rode  before  his 
Brutal  Hessians — bloody  Tories, 
They  were  fit  companions,  truly, 

Hirelings  these  and  traitors  those — 
While  the  careless  jest  and  laughter 
Of  the  teamsters  coming  after 
Rang  around  each  creaking  wain 
Of  the   train. 


[67] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


'Twas  a  quiet  Sabbath  morning; 
Nature  gave  no  sign  of  warning 
Of  the  struggle  that  would  follow 

When  we  met  the  Briton's  might, 
Of  the  horsemen  fiercely  spurring, 
Of  the  bullets  shrilly  whirring, 
Of  the  bayonets  brightly  gleaming 

Through  the  smoke  that  wrapped  the  fight; 
Of  the  cannon  thunder-pealing, 
Of  the  wounded  wretches  reeling, 
And  the  corses  gory  red 
Of   the   dead. 

Quiet  nature  had  no  prescience; 
But  the  Tories  and  the  Hessians 
Heard  the  baying  of  the  beagles 

That  were  hanging  on  their  track; 
Heard  the  cries  of  eager  ravens 
Soaring  high  above  the  cravens; 
And  they  hurried,  worn  and  worried, 

Casting  startled  glances  back, 
Leaving  Clinton  there  to  meet  us, 
With  his  bull-dogs  fierce  to  greet  us, 
With  the  veterans  of  the  crown, 
Scarred  and  brown. 

For  the  fight  our  souls  were  eager 
And  each  Continental  leaguer, 
As  he  gripped  his  fire-lock  firmly, 

Scarce  could  wait  the  word  to  fire ; 
For  his  country  rose  such  fervor, 
In  his  heart  of  hearts  to  serve  her, 
That  it  gladdened  him  and  maddened 

Him  and  kindled  raging  ire. 
Never  panther  from  his  fastness, 

Through  the  forest's  gloomy  vastness, 
Coursed  more  grimly  night  and  day 
For  his  prey. 

I  was  in  the  main  force  posted; 
Lee,  of  whom  his  minions  boasted, 
Was  commander  of  the  vanguard, 

And  with  him  were  Scott  and  Wayne. 
What  they  did  I  knew  not,  cared  not; 
In  their  march  of  shame  I  shared  not; 


[68] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


But  it  startled  me  to  see  them 

Panic-stricken   back   again, 
At  the  black  morass's  border, 
All  in  headlong  fierce  disorder, 
With  the  Briton  plying  steel 
At  their  heel. 

Outward  cool  when  combat  waging, 

Howsoever   inward   raging, 

Ne'er  had  Washington  showed    feeling, 

When  his  forces  fled  the  foe; 
But  today  his  forehead  lowered, 
And  we  shrank  his  wrath  untoward, 
As  on  Lee  his  bitter  speech  was 

Hurled  in  hissing  tones  and  low: 
"Sir,  what  means  this  wild  confusion? 
Is  it  cowardice  or  collusion? 
Is  it  treachery  or  fear, 

Brings    you    here?  " 

Lee  grew  crimson  in  his  anger — 
Rang  his  curses  o'er  the  clangor, 
O'er  the  roaring  din  of  battle, 

As  he  wrathfully  replied; 
But  his  raging  was  unheeded; 
Fastly  on  our  chieftain  speeded, 
Rallied  quick  the  fleeing  forces, 

Stayed  the  dark,  retreating  tide, 
Then    on  foaming  steed  returning, 
Said  to  Lee,  with  wrath  still  burning, 
'Will  you  now  strike  a  blow 
At  the  foe?  " 

At  the  words  Lee  drew  up  proudly 
Curled  his  lip  and  answered  loudly: 
"Ay  !  "  his  voice  rang  out,  "and  will  not 

Be  the  first  to  leave  the  field;" 
And  his  word  redeeming  fairly, 
With  a  skill  surpassed  but  rarely, 
Struck  the  Briton  with  such  ardor 

That  the  scarlet  column  reeled; 
Then,  again,  but  in  good  order, 
Pass  the  black  morass's  border, 
Brought  his  forces  rent  and  torn, 
Spent    and    worn. 


[69] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


As  we  turned  on  flanks  and  center, 
In  the  path  of  death  to  enter, 
One  of  Knox's  brass  six-pounders 

Lost  its  Irish  cannoneer; 
And  his  wife,  who  'mid  the  slaughter 
Had  been  bearing  pails  of  water 
For  the  gun  and  for  the  gunner, 

O'er  his  body  shed  no  tear. 
"Move  the  piece  !  " — but  there  they  found  her 
Loading,  firing  that  six-pounder, 
And  she  gayly  till  we  won, 

Worked   the   gun. 

Loud  we  cheered  as  Captain  Molly 
Waved  the  rammer;  then  a  volley 
Pouring  in  upon  the  grenadiers, 

We  sternly  drove  them  back; 
Though  like  tigers  fierce  they  fought  us, 
To  such  zeal  had  Molly  brought  us 
That,  though  struck  with  heat,  and  thirsting, 

Yet  of  drink  we  felt  no  lack; 
There  she  stood  amid  the  clamor, 
Busily  handling  sponge  and  rammer, 
While  we  swept  with  wrath  condign 
On  their  line. 

From  our  center  backward  driven, 
With  his  forces  rent  and  riven, 
Soon  the  foe  re-formed  in  order, 

Dressed  again  his  shattered  ranks; 
In  a  column  firm  advancing, 
From  his  bayonets  hot  rays  glancing 
Showed  in  waving  lines  of  brilliance 

As  he  fell  upon  our  flanks, 
Charging  bravely  for  his  master ; 
Thus  he  met  renewed  disaster 
From  the  stronghold  that  we  held 
Back  repelled. 

Monckton,  gallant,  cool,  and  fearless, 
'Mid  his  bravest  comrades  peerless, 
Brought  his  grenadiers  to  action 
But  to  fall  amid  the  slain; 
Everywhere  their  ruin  found  them; 
Red  destruction  rained  around  them 


170] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

From  the  mouth  of  Oswald's  cannon, 
From  the  musketry  of  Wayne; 
While  our  sturdy  Continentals, 
In  their  dusty  regimentals, 
Drove  their  plumed  and  scarlet  force, 
Man  and  horse. 

Beamed  the  sunlight  fierce  and  torrid 
O'er  the  battle  raging  horrid, 
Till,  in  faint  exhaustion  sinking, 

Death  was  looked  on  as  a  boon; 
Heat,  and  not  a  drop  of  water — 
Heat,  that  won  the  race  of  slaughter, 
Fewer  far  with  bullets  dying 

Than  beneath  the  sun  of  June; 
Only  ceased  the  terrible  firing 
With  the  Briton  slow  retiring, 
As  the  sunbeams  in  the  west 
Sank  to  rest. 

On  our  arms  so  heavily  sleeping, 
Careless  watch  our  sentries  keeping, 
Ready  to  renew  the  contest 

When  the  dawning  day  should  show ; 
Worn  with  toil  and  heat,  in  slumber 
Soon  were  wrapped  our  greatest  number, 
Seeking  strength  to  rise  again  and 

Fall  upon  the  wearied  foe ; 
For  we  felt  his  power  was  broken; 
But  what  rage  was  ours  outspoken 
When,  on  waking  at  the  dawn, 
He  had  gone. 

In  the  midnight  still  and  somber, 
While  our  force  was  wrapped  in  slumber, 
Clinton  set  his  train  in  motion, 

Sweeping  fast  to  Sandy  Hook; 
Safely  from  our  blows  he  bore  his 
Mingled  Britons,  Hessians,  Tories — 
Bore  away  his  wounded  soldiers, 

But  his  useless  dead  forsook; 
Fleeing  from  a  worse  undoing. 
And  too  far  for  our  pursuing: 
So  we  found  the  field  our  own, 
And    alone. 


[71] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

How  that  stirring  day  comes  o'er  me  ! 
How  those  scenes  arise  before  me  ! 
How  I  feel  a  youthful  vigor 

For  a  moment  fill  my  frame  ! 
Those  who  fought  beside  me  seeing, 
From  the  dim  past  brought  to  being, 
By  their  hands  I  fain  would  clasp  them — 

Ah  !  each  lives  but  in  his  name ; 
But  the  freedom  that  they  fought  for, 
And  the  country  grand  they  wrought  for, 
Is  their  monument  to-day, 
And  for  aye. 

Thomas  Dunn  English. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

June  28,  1778. 

From  Poems  Lyrical  and  Dramatic  by  permission  of  John  Wiley  &  Sons ; 

copyright   1900. 

In  the  grasses  the  cob-webs  were  lying, 

Frosted  white  with  the  fall  of  the  dew, 
When  we  roused  from  our  tents  before  sunrise 

As  the  bugles  the  rippling  call  blew. 
"Drop  your  knapsacks,  men  !  Form  !"  and  now  "Forward  !" 

We  are  off,  and  the  red  dust  upflies, 
Not  a  breath  turns  the  silver-lined  birch-leaves, 

And  the  quivering  air  dazzles  our  eyes. 

Comes  a  sound — was  that  thunder  that  rumbled? 

In  the  vivid  sky  blazes  the  sun. 
'Twas  the  cannon  that  roared  in  the  distance. 

Hasten  on,  for  the  fight  has  begun  ! 
As  we  paused  by  a  church  for  our  orders 

Stood  our  Chief,  as  I  see  him  e'en  now, 
With  his  hand  on  his  horse's  hot  forehead, 

And  the  dust  on  his  noble  white  brow. 

[72] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

Then  a  farmer  rushed  up  to  us,  panting: 

"Sir,  your  soldiers  are  flying,  ahead  !  " 
"Silence  !  This  is  some  coward's  invention. 

March  forward,  men  !  "  Washington  said. 
Then  we  stirred  at  the  cry  of  the  bugles, 

At  the  sound  of  the  trampling  of  feet, 
And  we  felt  that  to  struggle  was  holy, 
And  to  die  for  our  country  was  sweet. 

Then  the  blood  hammered  fast  in  our  temples, 

And  we  burned  with  the  thirst  for  the  fray, 
And  our  muscles  strained  hard  at  our  muskets 

As  our  General  spurred,  plunging,  away. 
Look,  who  comes?     See  the  troops  there  before  us  ! 

'Tis  our  soldiers,  and  flying,  we  see. 
Wild,  disordered,  and  jaded,  they  meet  us 

They  retreat — by  the  orders  of  Lee  ! 

On  we  go  with  haste  of  dread  urging 

To  a  farm  where  the  broad  brook  runs  fast, 
And  the  children  at  play  by  the  lilacs 

Come  out  running  to  see  us  march  past; 
And  the  sweet,  thrilling  sound  of  their  voices 

Floats  across  on  the  flower-scented  air, 
"Oh,  they're  marching  right  down  to  the  willows, 

And  they'll  ruin  our  playhouse  that's  there  !" 

O,  you  children  !  our  hearts  ached  to  hear  you, 

Though  we  knew  not  that  there  by  your  wall 
They  will  dig  a  deep  trench  on  the  morrow 

For  the  men  that  ere  evening  shall  fall. 
Now  we  looked  on  the  country  below  us, 

Where  our  soldiers  left  honor  behind, 
And  were  flying  like  leaves  in  the  Autumn 

When  they  whirl  in  the  eddying  wind. 

At  their  head,  lo,  the  recreant  commander, 

And  our  Chief  urged  his  horse's  quick  pace, 
nd  there,  on  the  bridge  o'er  the  torrent, 
Lee  and  Washington  met  face  to  face. 

[73] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

Such  a  glance  as  when  Jove  shakes  Olympus, 
As  he  scatters  the  thunder-bolt  wide; 

Like  the  flash  of  a  sword  from  its  scabbard 

Came  his  speech:  "Sir,  what  means  this?"  he  cried. 

Then  the  orders  came  rattling  like  hailstones, 
And  the  panic  was  stayed  by  his  hand. 

Fast  the  batteries  form  in  the  forest ; 

On  the  heights  with  the  cannon  we  stand. 

From  beneath  the  low  boughs  of  the  orchard, 
Like  the  angry  wasps,  Wayne's  bullets  fly, 

Till  the  fierce  Colonel  Monckton  grows  reckless: 

"Drive  them  out  !  drive  them  out  !  "  is  his  cry. 

On  the  grenadiers  charge  with  their  bayonets, 

Ranks  of  steel  like  a  glittering  wall; 
With  a  crash  like  the  meeting  of  waters 

Comes  the  answering  fire — and  they  fall. 
But  the  heat  of  the  air  saps  our  courage, 

And  we  faint  'neath  the  glare  of  the  sky ; 
To  the  streaked  brook  our  comrades  crawl,  moaning 

Like  the  hurt  deer,  to  drink  and  to  die. 

Yet  He  called  for  a  charge,  the  undaunted 

And  we  formed  in  our  battle  array, 
But  the  shadows  arose  from  the  hollows, 

So  we  waited  the  coming  of  day. 
When  we  looked  for  our  foes  on  the  morrow, 

As  the  mist  melted  off  in  the  sun, 
Like  the  fabled  Assyrian  army 

They  had  vanished — and  Monmouth  was  won  ! 

Sara  Wiley  Drummond. 


[74] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

THE  LONGEST  BATTLE. 

Monmouth,  June  28,  1778. 

By  permission   of  the  author;  copyrighted. 

To-day,  with  deep  peace  hovering  o'er, 
We  fight  a  battle  of  war  once  more. 
Of  all  the  battles,  if  men  say  right, 
Of  all  of  the  seven  years'  patriot  fight, 
This  one  could  the  longest  drama  tell, 
Ere  ever  its  blood-stained  curtain  fell. 
We  fight  not  now  with  bullets  of  hate, 
Or  the  hot-throated  cannon's  cry, 
Not  now  with  the  sword — grim  knife  of  fate 
Not  now  in  the  hope  that  men  may  die  ! 
To-day  with  a  frequent  clasp  of  hands, 
Are  living  in  peace  the  two  great  lands — 
They  in  their  English  isle,  possessed 
Of  wealth  in  the  eastern  regions  won — 
We  in  the  gardens  of  the  west, 
Still  travelling  west  with  the  rising  sun. 

We  fight  this  battle — well  fought  before — 
That  they  who  are  dead  may  live  once  more; 
We  fill  these  fields  with  the  war's  rich  flame •,. 
To  light  them  up  into  the  halls  of  fame, 
O,  long  shall  this  shaft  of  glory  tell 
Of  heroes  that  knew  that  "war  is  hell," 
But  deemed  that  slavery,  to  men  of  pride, 
Was  hell  with  the  devils  multiplied! 

Again  to-day  are  the  Jersey  pines 
Made  dark  by  the  glitter  of  Clinton's  lines: 
Through  marsh  and  valley,  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
And  green-flagged  meadow  and  waving  grain, 
From  southern  river  to  northern  bay, 
Twelve  miles  of  soldiery  wends  its  way. 
Heroes  of  many  a  conquered  clime; 

Cavalry,  cannon,  and  grenadiers; 
Their  general  strong  in  his  hardy  prime — 

A  veteran,  even  at  forty  years. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

There  are  men  who  have  clashed  'gainst  Europe's  steel, 

And  men  who  have  met  the  Indian  bold, 
And  men  with  a  love  for  England's  weal, 

And  men  with  a  lust  for  England's  gold. 
Ah,  Clinton,  beware  of  this  summer  day  ! 

There  comes,  from  the  hills  of  Valley  Forge, 
Not  George  the  Third,  with  a  King's  display — 

But  our  plain,  fighting,  American  George  ! 
Beware  of  the  Monmouth  county  men, 

Each  one  your  natural  foe: 
They  fought  for  freedom,  with  tongue  and  pen, 

A  hundred  years  ago. 
Phil  Dickinson,  Jersey's  noble  boon, 
Will  give  you  some  Jersey  lightning,  soon  ! 

Another  line — a  patriot  band — 
Have  waited  for  sunrise  to  storm  the  land ; 
Not  men  who  with  mischief  only  to  do, 
Have  fed  and  fattened  the  winter  through; 
Not  men  who  have  lounged  on  flowery  tracks — 
A  rich  old  nation  behind  their  backs ; 
But  men  who  have  frozen  and  starved  their  way 
Through  many  a  winter  night  and  day ; 
And  men  who  suffered  that  those  at  home 
Might  live  in  peace  through  the  years  to  come ; 
And  men  that  would  die  with  a  cheerful  smile, 
If  but  their  country  could  live  meanwhile. 
No  ribbons  nor  orders  nor  medals  have  they ; 

No  tinsel  to  capture  the  dazzled  sight; 
Their  flag  is  their  pillar  of  cloud  by  day, 

Their  faith  is  their  pillar  of  fire  by  night. 

The  lines  have  met  !  the  duel  is  on, 
Ere  high  in  the  sky  is  the  Sabbath  sun  ! 
And  Dickinson's  guns,  no  longer  mute, 
Have  given  the  visitors  rough  salute. 
They  fall  on  the  foe  with  patriot  zeal, 
And  bullet  to  bullet  and  steel  to  steel, 
Take  place  of  the  morning  bells  of  prayer 
On  the  startled  hush  of  the  sacred  air. 


[761 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

But  what  can  a  band  of  true  men  do, 

If  he  who  commands  them  prove  untrue? 

And  how  can  a  loyal  fight  be  made, 

If  under  the  rule  of  a  renegade? 

Oh  wise  psychologists,  picture  me 

The  heart,  that  day,  of  General  Lee  ! 

Patriot  or  hireling,  or  hero,  or  knave? 

American  warrior,  or  British  slave? 

Or  did  his  strangeness,  leaping  design, 

Pass  o'er  insanity's  border  line? 

Oh,  why  was  this  man,  by  the  camp-fire  born, 

And  reared  to  the  drum's  loud  beat, 
So  oft  in  victory's  very  morn, 

The  apostle  of  retreat? 
Howbeit  he  deemed  them  in  the  right, 
He  vowed  Americans  could  not  fight 
Against  the  disciplined  British  foe ; 
Then  did  his  meanest  to  make  it  so. 
How  could  he  think,  by  his  swift  retreat, 
To  drive  the  enemy  to  defeat? 
How  could  he  hope,  in  that  solemn  fray, 
By  flight  and  panic  to  win  the  day  ? 
Oh,  wise  psychologists,  say  :     was  he 
Our  Benedict  Arnold  from  o'er  the  sea? 

But  students  of  souls,  waste  not  an  hour, 

Waste  not  a  minute,  in  telling  me 
The  heart  of  that  man,  of  god-like  power, 

Who  met  and  swore  at  General  Lee  ! 
No  need  of  the  analytic  art, 
To  learn  George  Washington's  honest  heart; 
No  long  discussions  are  wanted  now — 

No  sifting  of  words  or  juggle  of  facts, 
To  read  the  motives  behind  that  brow — 

To  read  his  thoughts  or  explain  his  acts  ! 
As  clear  as  that  summer  morn,  his  brain; 

His  heart  was  warm  as  the  noonbeams  are: 
His  will  was  strong  as  the  magic  chain 

That  stretches  away  from  star  to  star. 
Who,  on  this  globe,  is  worthy  to  raise 
The  song  of  our  foremost  patriot's  praise? 

[77J 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

For  him  no  plaudits  can  e'er  be  high 
Enough  till  they  cleave  the  clear  blue  sky ; 
For  him  a  monument  rears  its  crest 

Built  by  invisible  hands, 
Of  patriot  souls  from  East  to  West, 

From  all  of  the  tribes  and  lands  ! 


He  met  that  breeder  of  dangerous  fright, 

Who  held  that  Americans  could  not  fight , 

Leading  the  legions  toward  despair, 

And  cursed  him  handsomely  then  and  there. 

The  accusing  angel  was  not  loth 

To  take  heaven's  chancery  that  honest  oath; 

He  did  not  blush  as  he  gave  it  in ; 

The  godly  purpose  wiped  out  the  sin. 

Perhaps  when  his  ear  a  moment  caught 

That  solemn  outburst  of  heart  and  brain, 
The  recording  angel  simply  thought 

That  not  to  have  sworn  would  have  been  profane. 
Oh,  fields  of  battle,  by  patriots'  blood 

Made  bright  on  this  happy  summer  day, 
You  gleam  still  brighter  in  glory's  flood 

Because  our  Washington  passed  this  way. 
No  longer  led  by  a  uniformed  doubt, 

But  by  a  man  they  love  and  know, 
The  patriot  columns  wheel  about, 

And  savagely  face  the  foe. 
Now  unto  the  monster  Strife  again 

This  Sabbath  day  is  wed, 
And  churches  are  full  of  wounded  men 

And  pale  unfuneralled  dead; 
Now,  women  with  homes  from  tyrants  free, 

And  angels  in  homes  above, 
Look  sharp  through  the  smoke-stained  air,  and  see 

Men  fight  for  the  homes  they  love. 

What  boy  is  this — with  a  face  as  bright 

As  the  morning's  freshly  opened  flowers, 

Who  fought  with  Lee  for  a  chance  to  fight, 
Through  all  those  terrible  morning  hours? 


178] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Oh,  who,  as  our  hosts  once  more  advance, 

For  a  moment  can  forget 
The  lad  that  came  from  the  land  of  France — 

The  marvelous  Lafayette? 
Right  well  did  the  fates  his  mission  know; 

He  was  born  a  noble,  and  doubly  so  ! 
He  left  his  wife  and  fortune  and  kin, 

For  that  which  he  deemed  the  right; 
He  followed  the  banner  and  helped  it  win, 

Through  many  a  glorious  fight. 
Not  yet  at  manhood's  earliest  age 
He  turned  his  history's  glowing  page; 
For  half  a  century  still  was  he 
To  live  for  his  race ;  with  heart  and  hands, 
Both  sides  of  the  proud  applauding  sea, 

He  fought  for  the  two  republic  lands — 
France  and  America ;  now  the  ones 
Under  the  eastern  and  western  suns, 
Which  still  are  striving  to  teach  the  world 
That  men  with  liberty's  flag  unfurled 
Can  govern  themselves,  with  no  such  thing 
As  feeble  aid  from  an  unsought  king. 
Not  only  the  man,  but  the  wife  we  bless; 

When  striving  to  rush  to  this  land's  relief, 
His  kin  said  "No,"  but  his  wife  said  "Yes," 

In  spite  of  her  love  and  fear  and  grief, 
So  on  this  day  we  will  not  forget 
A  cheer  for  the  wife  of  Lafayette  ! 

What  woman  is  this  of  the  saving  craft, 

With  flashing  and  handsome  eyes? 
She  brings  to  the  soldiers  the  cooling  draught, 

Till  her  husband  falls  and  dies, 
And  then,  with  sorrow  and  rage  and  pride, 
She  loads  the  cannon,  that  corpse  beside, 
And  she,  the  woman  of  loving  heart, 
Who,  acting  a  woman's  gentler  part, 
Brought  fragments  of  heaven  from  the  brook's  clear  well, 
Now  turns  and  gives  the  enemy — shell 
And  shot,  and  powder,  and  all  the  woe 
That  woman  can  fling  at  a  hated  foe. 
Worthy  of  fame  for  evermore, 
This  Amazon  of  our  western  shore ; 
She  taught  the  world  that  when  men  were  dead 
The  patriot  women  could  fight  instead; 

[79] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


She  gave  that  day  a  lesson  to  man, 
It  never  forgot,  and  never  can. 

For  this  brave  woman's  sake, 
Oh  red-haired  women,  we  hold  you  dear;* 

The  thankful  world  should  make 
For  Captain  Mollie  an  honest  cheer  ! 

Mad  Anthony  Wayne,  to  judge  by  the  way 

You  fought,  you  were  mad,  indeed,  that  day  ! 

Foaming  to  fight  when  once  let  free 

From  the  prison  squad  of  the  laggard  Lee, 

Though  happily  under  that  same  poltroon, 

You  did  good  work  in  the  afternoon  ! 

Again  in  the  hot  strife  you  are  seen, 

Brave  Knox  and  Hamilton — Scott  and  Green ; 

And  Monckton — bravest  of  honest  foes — 

Shall  still  on  the  field  of  his  fame  repose ; 

Again  we  meet  you  with  tearful  smile, 

Oh  men  of  the  patriot  rank  and  file, 

That  carved  for  their  country  a  bloody  track, 

And  beat  the  army  of  Clinton  back, 

And  pounded  him  all  the  afternoon 

Until  he  "skipped  by  the  light  of  the  moon," 

And  after  that  new  moon  long  had  set, 

Was  skipping  away  from  danger  yet  ! 

Our  army  slept  in  the  sultry  air, 

And  the  crescent  moon  looked  on  them  there, 

Emblem  of  growth,  and  prophesied 

The  growth  of  our  nation  yet  to  be — 
For  which  those  patriots  fought  and  died — 

The  nation  they  made  for  you  and  me. 
Oh  long  shall  this  shaft  of  glory  tell 
The  deeds  of  the  men  who  fought  so  well  ! 
And  long  may  it  mark  the  friendship  taught 
'Twixt  two  great  nations  that  twice  have  fought, 
And  felt  a  truth  that  has  oft  been  shown — 
That  each  is  safer  if  left  alone. 

Oh  dead  of  the  nations,  doubly  blessed, 

Reach  upward  and  clasp  your  spectre  hands, 
And  pray  that  God's  good  blessings  rest 
On  both  of  the  English-speaking  lands  ! 

WillCarleton. 
[80] 


MOLL  PITCHER  AT  THE  BATTLE  OF  MONMOUTH 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


MOLLY  MAGUIRE  AT  MONMOUTH. 

On  the  bloody  field  of  Monmouth, 

Flashed  the  guns  of  Greene  and  Wayne, 
Fiercely  roared  the  tide  of  battle, 

Thick  the  sward  was  heaped  with  slain. 
Foremost,  facing  death  and  danger, 

Hessian,   horse,   and   grenadier, 
In  the  vanguard,  fiercely  fighting 

Stood    an    Irish    cannoneer. 

Loudly  roared  his  iron  cannon, 

Mingling  ever  in  the  strife, 
And  beside  him,  firm  and  daring 

Stood  his  faithful  Irish  wife. 
Of  her  bold  contempt  of  danger 

Greene  and  Lee's  brigades  could  tell; 
Every  one  knew  "Captain  Molly" 

And  the  army  loved  her  well. 

Surged  the  roar  of  battle  round  them, 

Swiftly  flew  the  iron  hail, 
Forward  dashed  a  thousand  bayonets, 

That  lone  battery  to  assail. 
From  the  foeman's  foremost  columns 

Swept   a   furious   fusillade 
Mowing  down  the  massed  battalions, 

In  the  ranks  of  Greene's  brigade. 

Faster  and  faster  worked  the  gunner, 

Soiled  .with  powder,  blood  and  dust, 
English  bayonets  shone  before  him, 

Shot  and  shell  around  him  burst; 
Still  he  fought  with  reckless  daring, 

Stood  and  manned  her  long  and  well 
Till  at  last  the  gallant  fellow 

Dead,  beside  his  cannon,  fell. 

With  a  bitter  cry  of  sorrow 

And  a  dark  and  angry  frown, 
Looked  that  band  of  gallant  patriots 
At  their  gunner  stricken  down. 
"Fall  back,  comrades,  it  is  folly 

Thus  to  strive  against  the  foe." 
"No,  not  so,"  cried  Irish  Molly, 

'We  can  strike  another  blow." 


[81J 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Quickly  leaped  she  to  the  cannon, 

In  her  fallen  husband's  place, 
Sponged  and  rammed  it  fast  and  steady, 

Fired  it  in  the  foeman's  face. 
Flashed  another  ringing  volley, 

Roared  another  from  the  gun; 
"Boys,  hurrah  !  "  cried  gallant  Molly, 
"For  the  flag  of  Washington," 

Greene's  brigade,  though  torn  and  shattered. 

Slain  and  bleeding  half  their  men, 
When  they  heard  that  Irish  slogan, 

Turned  and  charged  the  foe  again. 
Knox  and  Wayne  and  Morgan  rally, 

To  the  front  they  forward  wheel, 
And  before  their  rushing  onset 

Clinton's  English  columns  reel. 

Still  the  cannon's  voice  in  anger 

Rolled  and  rattled  o'er  the  plain, 
Till  there  lay  in  swarms  around  it 

Mangled  heaps  of  Hessians  slain. 
"Forward  !    Charge  them  with  the  bayonet  !  " 

'Twas  the  voice  of  Washington, 
And  there  burst  a  fiery  greeting 

From  the  Irish  woman's  gun. 

Monckton  falls ;  against  his  columns 

Leap  the  troops  of  Wayne  and  Lee, 
And  before  their  reeking  bayonets 

Clinton's  red  battalions  flee. 
Morgan's  rifles,  fiercely  flashing, 

Thin  the  foe's  retreating  ranks; 
And  behind  them,  onward  dashing 

Ogden  hovers  on  their  flanks. 

Fast  they  fly,  these  boasting  Britons, 

Who  in  all  their  glory  came, 
With  their  brutal  Hessian  hirelings 

To  wipe  out  our  country's  name. 
Proudly  floats  the  starry  banner, 

Monmouth's  glorious  field  is  won, 
And  in  triumph,  Irish  Molly 

Stands  beside  her  smoking  gun. 

William  Collins. 


[12] 


SERGEANT  MOLLY. 

From  Songs  and  Satires ;  copyright  1886. 

The  snows  were  melted  from  Valley  Forge; 

The  blood  was  drunk  by  the  sodden  clay ; 
And,  counting  the  score  against  King  George, 

They  sharpened  their  swords  for  Monmouth  day. 

But  the  devil  may  take  the  caitiff  Lee! 

In  the  front  of  the  battle  his  courage  quailed, 
And  the  lions,  leaping  to  victory, 

Fell  back  when  their  leader's  hare-heart  failed; 

Till  the  Chieftain  came  with  his  face  a-flame 
And  an  angry  hand  on  a  ready  hilt, 

Halting  the  mob  with  a  taunt  of  shame 

And  a  hot,  fierce  curse  on  the  traitor's  guilt. 

So  we  see  him  now  in  his  god-like  wrath 

Firing  the  souls  of  meaner  men, 
Standing  athwart  the  coward's  path 

And  driving  the  victor  back  again; 

And  once  again  when,  the  battle  won 

And  the  beaten  foe  in  ignoble  flight, 

He  calls  for  the  soldier  who  served  the  gun 

In  Wayne's  brigade  on  the  bloody  right. 

How  the  soldiers  cheer,  in  their  comrade-pride, 

As  a  woman  steps  forth  from  the  cannoneers, 

And  her  mantling  blushes  fail  to  hide 

The  smoke  of  battle  and  stain  of  tears. 

She  is  only  a  soldier's  Irish  wife; 

But  yesterday,  when  the  fight  went  hard, 
The  hot  heart's  blood  of  her  soldier's  life 

Made  a  pool  by  his  gun  on  Monmouth  sward. 

And  the  captain  turned  away  his  head, — 

"Take  out  of  the  battle  the  idle  gun; 

There's  no  one  to  serve  it  now,"  he  said: 

But  a  white-faced  woman  cried,  "Yes,  there's  one." 

And  all  day  long,  through  the  fire  and  smoke 
And  din  of  battle  and  bullets'  hum, 

The  battery's  thunderous  voice  outspoke 

And  Pitcher's  cannon  was  never  dumb. 

Powder-stained  is  the  brown  hand  yet 

As  the  Chieftain  holds  it  and  speaks  his  thanks; 

[83] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


And  "Sergeant  Molly,"  by  his  brevet, 

Goes  proudly  back  to  the  cheering  ranks. 

James  Jeffrey  Roche. 


MOLLY   PITCHER. 

Copyright  1900,  by  the  Century  Company; 
reprinted   from   St.  Nicholas   by   permission. 

Pitcher  the  gunner  is  brisk  and  young; 
He's  a  lightsome  heart  and  a  merry  tongue, 
An  ear  like  a  fox,  an  eye  like  a  hawk, 
A  foot  that  would  sooner  run  than  walk, 
And  a  hand  that  can  touch  the  linstock  home 
As  the  lightning  darts  from  the  thunder-dome. 
He  hates  a  Tory ;  he  loves  a  fight ; 
The  roll  of  the  drum  is  his  heart's  delight; 
And  three  things  rule  the  gunner's  life: 
His  country,  his  gun,  and  his  Irish  wife. 

Oh,  Molly,  with  your  eyes  so  blue! 

Oh,  Molly,  Molly,  here's  to  you! 

Sweet  Honor's  roll  will  aye  be  richer 

To  hold  the  name  of  Molly  Pitcher. 

The  sun  shoots  down  on  Monmouth  fight 
His  brazen  arrows  broad  and  bright. 
They  strike  on  saber's  glittering  sheen, 
On  rifle-stock  and  bayonet  keen; 
They  pierce  the  smoke-cloud  gray  and  dim, 
Where  stand  the  gunners  swart  and  grim, 
Firing  fast  as  shot  can  flee 
At  the  foe  they  neither  hear  nor  see. 
Where  all  are  brave,  the  bravest  one, 
Pitcher  the  gunner,  serves  his  gun. 

Oh,  Molly,  Molly,  haste  and  bring 
The  sparkling  water  from  the  spring, 
To  drive  the  heat  and  thirst  away, 
And  keep  your  soldiers  glad  and  gay! 

A  bullet  comes  singing  over  the  brow, 

And — Pitcher's  gun  is  silent  now. 

The  brazen  throat  that  roared  his  will, 

The  shout  of  his  warlike  joy,  is  still. 

The  black  lips  curl,  but  they  shoot  no  flame, 

And  the  voice  that  cries  on  the  gunner's  name 

Finds  only  its  echo  where  he  lies 

With  his  steadfast  face  turned  up  to  the  skies. 


[84] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Oh,  Molly,  Molly,  where  he  lies 
His  last  look  meets  your  faithful  eyes; 
His  last  thought  sinks  from  love  to  love 
Of  your  darling  face  that  bends  above. 

"No  one  to  serve  in  Pitcher's  stead? 
Wheel  back  the  gun!"  the  captain  said; 
When,  like  a  flash,  before  him  stood 
A  figure  dashed  with  smoke  and  blood, 
With  streaming  hair,  with  eyes  of  flame, 
And  lips  that  falter  the  gunner's  name. 
"Wheel  back  his  gun,  that  never  yet 
His  fighting  duty  did  forget? 
His  voice  shall  speak,  though  he  lie  dead; 
I'll  serve  my  husband's  gun!"  she  said. 

Oh,  Molly,  now  your  hour  is  come! 

Up,  girl,  and  strike  the  linstock  home! 

Leap  out,  swift  ball!  away!  away! 

Avenge  the  gunner's  death  to-day! 

All  day  the  great  guns  barked  and  roared; 
All  day  the  big  balls  screeched  and  soared; 
All  day,  'mid  the  sweating  gunners  grim, 
Who  toiled  in  their  smoke-shroud  dense  and  dim, 
Sweet  Molly  labored  with  courage  high, 
With  steady  hand  and  watchful  eye, 
Till  the  day  was  ours,  and  the  sinking  sun 
Looked  down  on  the  field  of  Monmouth  won, 
And  Molly  standing  beside  her  gun. 

Now,  Molly,  rest  your  weary  arm! 

Safe,  Molly,  all  is  safe  from  harm. 

Now,  woman,  bow  your  aching  head 

And  weep  in  sorrow  o'er  your  dead! 

Next  day  on  that  field  so  hardly  won, 

Stately  and  calm,  stands  Washington, 

And  looks  where  our  gallant  Greene  doth  lead 

A  figure  clad  in  motley  weed — 

A  soldier's  cap  and  a  soldier's  coat 

Masking  a  woman's  petticoat. 

He  greets  our  Molly  in  kindly  wise ; 

He  bids  her  raise  her  tearful  eyes ; 

And  now^he  hails  her  before  them  all 

•Comradej[and  soldier,  whate'er  befall. 


185] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


"And  since  she  has  played  a  man's  full  part, 

A  man's  reward  for  her  loyal  heart! 

And  Sergeant  Molly  Pitcher's  name 

Be  writ  henceforth  on  the  shield  of  fame!" 

Oh,  Molly,  with  your  eyes  so  blue! 

Oh,  Molly,  Molly,  here's  to  you! 

Sweet  Honor's  roll  will  aye  be  richer 

To  hold  the  name  of  Molly  Pitcher. 

Laura  Elizabeth  Richards. 


THE  SPUR  OF  MONMOUTH. 

'Twas  a  little  brass  half -circlet, 

Deep  gnawed  by  rust  and  stain, 
That  the  farmer's  urchin  brought  me. 

Ploughed  up  in  Old  Monmouth's  plain; 
On  that  spot  where  the  hot  June  sunshine 

Once  a  fire  more  deadly  knew, 
And  a  bloodier  color  reddened 

Where  the  red  June  roses  blew, 

Where  the  moon  of  the  early  harvest 

Looked  down  through  the  shimmering'leare*, 
And  saw  where  the  reaper  of  battle 

Had  gathered  his  human  sheaves: 
Old  Monmouth,  so  touched  with  glory, 

So  tinted  with  burning  shame, 
As  Washington's  pride  we  remember, 

Or   Lee's   long-tarnished  name. 

'Twas  a  little  brass  half-circlet; 

And  knocking  the  rust  away, 
And  clearing  the  ends  and  the  middle 

From  their  burial  shroud  of  clay, 
I  saw,  through  the  damp  of  ages, 

And  the  thick  disfiguring  grime, 
The  buckle-heads  and  the  rowel 

Of  a  spur  of  the  olden  time. 

And  I  said,  "What  gallant  horseman, 

Who  revels  and  rides  no  more, 
Perhaps  twenty  years  back  or  fifty, 

On  his  heel  that  weapon  wore? 


[86] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Was  he  riding  away  to  his  bridal 

When  the  leather  snapped  in  twain? 

Was  he  thrown,  and  dragged  by  the  stirrup, 

With  the  rough  stones  crushing  his  brain?  " 

Then  I  thought  of  the  Revolution, 

Whose  tide  still  onward  rolls; 
Of  the  free  and  the  fearless  riders, 

Of  the  "times  that  tried  men's  souls," 
What  if,  in  the  day  of  battle 

That  raged  and  rioted  here, 
It  had  dropped  from  the  foot  of  a  soldier, 

As  he  rode  in  his  mad  career? 

What  if  it  had  ridden  with  Forman, 

When  he  leaped  through  the  open  door, 
With  the  British  dragoon  behind  him 

In  his  race  o'er  the  granary  floor? 
What  if — but  the  brain  grows  dizzy 

With  the  thoughts  of  the  rusted  spur, 
What  if  it  had  fled  with  Clinton 

Or  charged  with  Aaron  Burr? 

But  bravely  the  farmer's  urchin 

Had  been  scraping  the  rust  away; 
And,  cleaned  from  the  soil  that  swathed  it, 

The  spur  before  me  lay. 
Here  are  holes  in  the  outer  circle ; 

No  common  heel  it  has  known, 
For  each  space,  I  see  by  the  setting, 

Once  held  some  precious  stone. 

And  here,  not  far  from  the  buckle — 

Do  my  eyes  deceive  their  sight? 
Two  letters  are  here  engraven,  , 

That  initial  a  hero's  might — 
"G.   W."     Saints  of  Heaven  ! 

Can  such  things  in  our  lives  occur? 
Do  I  grasp  such  a  priceless  treasure? 

Was  this  George  Washington's  spur? 

Did  the  brave  old  Pater  Patriae 

Wear  that  spur,  like  a  belted  knight, — 

Wear  it,  through  gain  and  disaster, 

From  Cambridge  to  Monmouth  fight? 


[87] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

Did  it  press  his  steed  in  hot  anger 

On  Long  Island's  day  of  pain? 
Did  it  drive  him  at  terrible  Princeton 

'Tween  two  streams  of  leaden  rain? 

And  here  did  the  buckles  loosen, 

And  no  eye  look  down  to  see, 
When  he  rode  to  blast  with  the  lightning 

The  defiant  eyes  of  Lee? 
Did  it  fall,  unfelt  and  unheeded, 

When  that  fight  of  despair  was  won, 
And  Clinton,  worn  and  discouraged, 

Crept  away  at  the  set  of  the  sun? 

The  lips  have  long  been  silent 

That  could  send  an  answer  back, 
And  the  spur,  all  broken  and  rusted 

Has  forgotten  its  rider's  track; 
I  only  know  that  the  pulses 

Leap  hot  and  the  senses  reel, 
When  I  think  that  the  spur  of  Monmouth 

May  have  clasped  George  Washington's  heel. 

And  if  it  be  so,  O  Heaven 

That  the  nation's  destiny  holds, 
And  that  wraps  the  good  and  the  evil 

In  the  future's  bewildering  folds, 
Send  forth  some  man  of  the  people, 

Unspotted  in  heart  and  hand, 
On  his  foot  to  buckle  the  relic 

And  charge  for  a  periled  land  ! 

There  is  fire  in  our  fathers'  ashes, 

There  is  life  in  the  blood  they  shed; 
And  not  a  hair  unheeded 

Shall  fall  from  the  nation's  head. 
Old  bones  of  the  saints  and  martyrs 

Spring  up  at  the  Church's  call; — 
God  grant  that  the  spur  of  Monmouth 

Prove  the  mightiest  relic  of  all  ! 

Henry  Morford. 
[88] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

McFINGAL. 

Satirical  Description  of  the  Battle  of  Monmouth. 

This  extract,  descriptive  of  the  Battle  of  Monmouth,  is  taken  from 
McFingal,  the  famous  satirical  poem  written  by  John  Trumbull  during  the 
Revolutionary  war. 

Squire  McFingal,  the  tory  hero  of  the  mock-epic,  having  been 
treated  by  the  Whigs  of  his  neighborhood  to  a  coat  of  tar  and  feathers, 
assembles  at  night  all  his  tory  friends  in  the  cellar  of  his  house.  At  this 
secret  meeting,  the  Squire,  who  possesses  the  gift  of  second-sight  and  who 
is  assisted  by  his  henchman  Malcolm,  peers  into  the  future  and  reveals  to 
all  the  listening  tories  all  the  events  that  are  going  to  happen  between 
1776  and  1783;  and  thus  it  is  that  Trenton,  Princeton,  Monmouth  and 
Yorktown  pass  before  the  cowed  and  horrified  tories  like  a  series  of  mov 
ing  pictures  foreshowing  their  own  woes  and  misfortunes  and  the  crushing 
defeat  of  their  royal  master  King  George, 


I  look'd,  and  now  by  magic  lore, 
Faint  rose  to  view  the  Jersey  shore; 
But  dimly  seen,  in  glooms  arrayed, 
For  Night  had  pour'd  her  sable  shade, 
And  ev'ry  star,  with  glimm'rings  pale, 
Was  muffled  deep  in  evening  veil; 
Scarce  visible  in  dusky  night. 
Advancing  Red-coats  rose  to  sight; 
The  lengthen 'd  train,  in  gleaming  rows, 
Stole  silent  from  their  slumb'ring  foes; 
Slow  mov'd  the  baggage,  and  the  train 
Like  snail  crept  noiseless  o'er  the  plain; 
No  trembling  soldier  dared  to  speak, 
And  not  a  wheel  presum'd  to  creak. 

My  looks  my  new  surprise  confess'd, 
Till  by  great  Malcolm  thus  address'd; 
"Spend  not  thy  wits  in  vain  researches; 
'Tis  one  of  Clinton's  moonlight  marches. 
From   Philadelphia  now  retreating, 
To  save  his  anxious  troops  a  beating, 
With  hasty  strides  he  flies  in  vain, 
His  rear  attack'd  on  Monmouth  plain; 
With  various  chance  the  mortal  fray 
Is  lengthened  to  the  close  of  day, 
When  his  tir'd  bands,  o'ermatch'd  in  fight, 
Are  rescu'd  by  descending  night. 
He  forms  his  camp  with  vain  parade, 
Till  evening  spreads  the  world  with  shade ; 

[89] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Then  still,  like  some  endanger'd  spark, 
Steals  off  on  tiptoe  in  the  dark; 
Yet  writes  his  king,  in  boasting  tone, 
How  grand  he  marched  by  light  of  moon. 
I  see  him,  but  thou  canst  not;  proud 
He  leads  in  front  the  trembling  crowd, 
And  wisely  knows,  if  danger's  near, 
'Twill  fall  the  heaviest  on  his  rear." 

"Go  on,  great  General,  nor  regard 

The  scoffs  of  ev'ry  scribbling  bard, 

Who  sings  how  gods  that  fatal  night 

Aided  by  miracles  your  flight, 

As  once  they  us'd  in  Homer's  day 

To  help  weak  heroes  run  away; 

Tell  how  the  hours  of  awful  trial 

Went  back,  as  erst  on  Ahaz'  dial, 

While  British  Joshua  stay'd  the  moon 

On  Monmouth  plains,  for  Ajalon; 

Heed  not  their  sneers  and  jibes  so  arch, 

Because  she  set  before  your  march. 

A  small  mistake,  your  meaning  right, 

You  take  her  influence  for  her  light; 

Her  influence,  which  shall  be  your  guide, 

And  o'er  your  Gen'ralship  preside. 

Hence  still  shall  teem  your  empty  skull, 

With  vict'ries  when  the  moon's  at  full, 

Which  by  transition  yet  more  strange 

Wane  to  defeats  before  the  change; 

Hence  all  your  movements,  all  your  notions, 

Shall  steer  by  like  eccentric  motions, 

Eclips'd  in  many  a  fatal  crisis, 

And  dimm'd  when  Washington  arises." 

John  Trumbull. 


Here  are  the  exact  words  used  by  Sir  Henry  Clinton  in  his  official 
report  to  Lord  George  Germaine,  written  in  New  York  city  on  July  5, 
1778,  and  published  in  the  London  Gazette  "Having  reposed  the  troops 
till  ten  at  night,  to  avoid  the  excessive  heat  of  the  day,  I  took  advantage 
of  the  moon-light  to  rejoin  Lieutenant-General  Knyphausen  who  had  ad 
vanced  to  Nut-Swamp  near  Middletown." 

The  allusion  of  Clinton  to  the  light  of  the  moon  proved  a  source 
of  endless  merriment  to  the  American  wits.  As  a  matter  of  astronomical 
record,  the  moon  was  only  four  days  old  on  the  evening  of  this  famous  re 
treat,  the  almanac  showing  that  the  moon  went  down  at  10.55;  and  there- 
ore  the  moon's  thin  crescent  must  have  been  sinking  toward  the  western 

[90] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


horizon  when  the  British  columns  started  to  take  "advantage  of  the 
moon-light." 

Francis  Hopkinson  with  biting  wit  gives  a  fanciful  list  of  books 
offered  for  sale  by  a  tory  who  is  preparing  to  leave  America  forever,  and 
says  that  the  title  of  one  of  these  books  is  Miracles  Not  Ceased:  or  an 
instance  of  the  remarkable  Interposition  of  Providence  in  causing  the 
Moon  to  delay  her  setting  for  more  than  two  hours,  to  favor  the  retreat  of 
General  Joshua  and  the  British  Army  after  the  Battle  of  Monmouth." 

Will  Carleton,  also,  in  his  poem  on  this  battle,  grows  humorous 
on  the  same  topic,  saying  that  the  patriots  beat  Clinton 

"And  pounded  him  all  the  afternoon 
Until  he  skipped  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And,  after  that  new  moon  long  had  set, 
Was  skipping  away  from  danger  yet!" 


LIGHT-HORSE  HARRY  AT  PAULUS  HOOK. 

From  Ballads  of  New  Jersey  in  the  Revolution,  by  permission  of 
Charles   D.    Platt,    copyright,    1896. 

Jersey  City,  August  19,  1779 

O  Harry  Lee  it  was  who  did 

A  daring  deed  one  day 
And  Congress  had  a  medal  struck 

To  tell  his  fame  for  aye. 

Now  would  you  hear  about  that  deed, 

Attend  my  humble  song, 
And  I  will  tell  as  best  I  may 

That  tale;  'twill  not  be  long. 

For  well  we  may  at  this  far  day 

Recall  each  worthy  deed 
Wrought  by  the  men  who  battled  then 

To  meet  their  country's  need. 

At  Paulus  Hook  there  was  of  old 

A  military  post 
Where  Jersey  City  now  is  seen 

And  the  British  made  their  boast 

That  none  could  take  that  citadel 

With  ramparts  strong  begirt; 
So  strong  it  was,  the  garrison 

Grew  careless  to  their  hurt. 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


For  Captain  Lee  one  summer's  day 

Led  forth  a  chosen  band 
Three  hundred  strong,  and  Stirling  sent 

A  part  of  his  command. 

From  Bergen  marched  this  troop  by  night 

Unto  the  Hackensack, 
Full  fourteen  miles  below  the  Hook, 

And  here  Lee  took  the  track 

Among  the  hills  and  reached  ere  morn 

The  point  that  was  his  aim ; 
Through  the  loose-barred  gate  he  entered  straight 

And  won  his  way  to  fame. 

The  sentinels  were  sound  asleep, 

But  when  they  opened  their  eyes 

They  saw  a  strange,  undreamed-of-sight, — 
Complete  was  their  surprise. 

One  hundred  and  fifty-nine  that  day 

Were  taken  prisoner, 
Surprised  in  bed  and  captive  led 

Ere  they  to  arms  could  stir. 

And  on  the  medal  that  was  struck 

To  applaud  this  gallant  deed 
All  in  the  Latin  tongue  'tis  writ, 

Which  he  who  can  may  read: — 

"Unhindered  by  opposing  floods 

And  bristling  rampires   strong, 
On  marched  to  victory  and  to  fame 
The  hero  of  my  song. 

Small  was  his  band  of  followers  brave, 

The  greater  glory  theirs; 
And  honor  greater  still  than  fame 

He  wins  from  those  he  spares." 

Such  is  the  legend  written  there 

In  praise  of  Harry  Lee, 
The  leader  of  that  little  band 

Of  dauntless  cavalry. 


[92] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


For  when  the  foe  were  in  his  power 
And  none  could  lift  a  hand, 

He  spared  their  lives ;  no  needless  blood 
Was  shed  at  his  command. 

O  that  such  mercy  as  he  showed 
Were  known  across  the  sea 

Where  ruthless  Moslems  wield  the  sword 
In  fiendish  cruelty. 

O  that  we  yet  may  see  the  day 

When  such  humanity 
Shall  win  its  way  in  every  land — 

God  speed  that  victory  ! 


Charles   D.  Plait. 


SIMCOE'S  RAID  UP  THE  RARITAN  VALLEY. 

October  25,  1779. 

His  object  was  New  Jersey's  favorite  son, 
The  great,  the  patriotic  Livingston; 
Howe  and  his  minions  wished  to  lay  him  low 
To  stop  the  gall  which  from  his  pen  did  flow; 
But  yet  fair  freedom's  son  in  safety  stands, 
Whilst  Britain's  champion  is  now  in  our  hands; 
And  in  this  great,  this  daring  enterprise, 
Brave  Simcoe  quickly  fell  a  sacrifice. 

Capt.  Moses  Guest. 


Lieut. -Col.  John  Graves  Simcoe,  commander  of  a  company  of 
loyalists  known  as  the  Queen's  Rangers,  (and  subsequently  Governor  of 
Canada),  learned  that  Gov.  William  Livingston  was  visiting  Col.  Van 
Home  at  Middle  Brook.and  that  the  Americans  had  collected  some  flat- 
boats  on  the  Raritan.  He  at  once  laid  plans  to  capture  the  Governor 
and  to  destroy  the  boats,  by  a  daring  raid. 

He  crossed  from  Staten  Island  to  New  Jersey  at  the  Blazing  Star 
ferry  above  Perth  Amboy  with  seventy-five  horsemen  before  day-break 
on  October  25,  1779,  and  rode  swiftly  up  the  Raritan  valley  on  the  north 
side  of  the  river.  Finding  that  the  Governor  had  left  Van  Home's,  he 
pushed  on  to  Bound  Brook  and  destroyed  the  boats  and  naval  stores, 
crossed  the  river  and  set  fire  to  the  Somerset  courthouse,  and  then  started 
down  the  valley  on  the  south  side  in  order  to  avoid  the  militia  who  were 
gathering. 

[93] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Misled  by  his  guide  who  did  not  recognize  the  ruins  of  a  house 
recently  burned  down,  Sirncoe  took  the  wrong  road  at  the  forks  above 
New  Brunswick  and  fell  into  an  ambush  set  by  Captain  Moses  Guest. 
Col.  Simcoe  was  captured  but  his  dragoons  escaped  and  fled  to  Soutk 
Anaboy  whence  they  recrossed  to  Staten  Island. 

Simcoe  was  an  able  and  energetic  officer;  his  raid  into  the  rery 
keart  of  our  State  was  planned  with  skill  and  executed  with  boldness 
and  that  it  ended  in  his  personal  discomfiture  was  due  only  to  accidents 
against  which  it  was  not  in  the  power  of  human  foresight  to  provide. 


THE  MARTYR. 

JOSEPH  HEDDEN,  JR.,  OF  NEWARK. 
January,  1780. 

"Who  dies  for  liberty  shall  find  on  earth 
A  glorious  resurrection  and  new  life 
Whose  breath  is  furnished  by  the  trump  of  fame 
And  whose  duration  shall  not  fail  while  beats 
A  pulse  within  the  indignant  throbbing  breast 
Of  oppressed  Manhood — while  a  hill  shall  stand 
To  echo  back  his  stern  defiance-shout 
To  Tyranny  !  " 

When  on  the  field  of  battle 

The  soldier  sinks  to  death, 
And  to  his  suffering  country's  cause 

Devotes  his  latest  breath; 
His  country,  ever  grateful, 

Rewards  him  with  a  name 
On  everlasting  marble  carved, 

And  hands  him  down  to  fame. 

But  in  our  early  struggle, 

O'errun  by  cruel  foes, 
Full  many  a  nameless  martyr  sank, 

Weighed  down  with  bitter  woes: 
Who  suffers  like  the  soldier, 

Should  reap  renown  as  well — 
Oh  !  sure  he  should  not  be  forgot, 

Whose  trials  now  I  tell. 

'Twas  night  in  deep  mid-winter, 

When  fields  were  choked  with  snow, 

And  widest  streams  were  bridged  with  ice, 
And  keenest  blasts  did  blow — 


194] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


A  heavy  muffled  tramp  through 

The  village  streets  went  by: 
All  shuddered  in  their  beds, 

For  they  knew  the  foe  was  nigh. 

Soon  from  that  fearful  silence 

Alarming  clamors  peal, 
And  rising  gleams  along  the  snow 

The  dreadful  truth  reveal: 
"Rouse  !  rouse  ye  all  !  the  town  is  fired  !  " — 

Cries  friend  to  friend — "and  lo  ! 
The  triple  ranks  !  the  flashing  steel  ! — 

We're  mastered  by  the  foe  !  " 

Wide  flames,  with  showers  of  dropping  stars 

That  quench  the  stars  on  high, 
Now  flapping  loud  their  mighty  wings, 

Rush  flying  up  the  sky; 
Now  mothers  clasp  their  children, 

And  wail  aloud  their  woes, 
And,  gathering,  hide  their  little  store 

From  savage  plundering  foes. 

For  oft  the  rude  marauders 

Had  plied  their  cruel  trade, 
And  Hedden,  with  a  few  bold  hearts, 

Had  oft  the  robbers  stayed: 
But  now  with  stealthy  step, 

At  the  hour  of  midnight  dead, 
They  come  ! — they  burst  the  doors — they  drag 

The  old  man  from  his  bed. 

"Renounce  thy  faith  !  yield  up  thy  mates  ! 

Or,  by  King  George,  we'll  cast 
Thy  rebel  limbs  on  yonder  snows 

To  stiffen  in  the  blast  :  " 
"My  limbs  are  little  worth;"  he  cried, 
"Their  strength  is  nearly  gone — 
My  tongue  shall  ne'er  belie  my  heart, 
Nor  shame  my  cause:    lead  on  !  " 

Then  furious  all,  they  throttled  him ; 

When  "Hold!"  their  leader  cries, 
"Despatch  him  not;  we'll  try  his  pith 
Before  the  rebel  dies: 


[95] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Let  him  with  us  unclad  return — 
And  though  unmoved  by  steel, 

Perchance  a  march  along  the  snows 
Will  cool  his  patriotic  zeal  !  " 

Loud  yells  applaud  the  sentence  !— 

Then,  frantic  with  despair, 
Wife,  children  kneel  for  mercy, 

But  they  find  no  mercy  there; 
For  they  rudely  thrust  them  by, 

And  they  drag  the  old  man  forth ; 
And  crouching  quake  his  bare  limbs, 

As  they  feel  the  cutting  North. 

Then  rings  the  shouldered  musket, 

Then  taps  the  rattling  drum, 
And  with  rapid  step  they  tramp, 

For  the  freezing  winds  benumb ; 
By  the  savage  light  of  flames, 

On  their  dreary  march  they  go, 
That  shoot  their  shadows  far  before, 

Along  the  glaring  snow. 

No  pity  for  their  victim 

Would  move  their  hearts  of  stone, 
But  still  his  bare  feet  tread  the  snows 

That  chill  him  to  the  bone; 
And  many  an  icy  splinter 

Would  gash  them  with  its  blade — 
The  blood  that  strains  his  every  step 

Their  brutal  march  betrayed. 

And  when  his  stiffened  limbs  would  lag, 
By  age  and  sickness  lamed, 

With  bayonet-thrust  they  urge  him  on, 
Till  cruelty  is  shamed: 

God  bless  the  soldier's  heart  !  who  cried, 
"This  sight  I  cannot  see," 

And  round  him  threw  his  blanket  warm, 
That  clothed  him  to  the  knee. 

Now,  hard  as  marble  pavement  black, 

Passaic  stops  the  way: 
Like  serpent  stiff  in  winter  sleep, 

Her  torpid  volume  lay ; 

|96| 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


And  in  the  midnight  hush 

Not  a  sound  she  gave  the  ear, 

Save  the  long  peal  of  parting  ice, 
Like  thunder  crackling  near. 

But  still  the  word  is  "March  !  " 

And  they  tramp  the  icy  floor: 
But  the  old  man's  feet  are  numb, 

And  they  feel  the  cold  no  more. 
Full  many  a  weary  mile  he  drags, 

But  at  the  break  of  morn, 
In  prison  thrust,  he  drops  at  once, 

Exhausted  and  forlorn. 

Why  linger  in  my  story? 

His  heavy  trials  past 
Broke  down  the  feeble  strength  of  age — 

He  drooped  and  sank  at  last; 
But  God  the  martyr's  cruel  death 

Has  well  avenged,  for  see  ! 
His  murderers  beaten  from  the  soil — 

His  land,  his  children  free  ! 


Thomas  Ward. 


The  winter  of  1779-1780  was  extremely  cold;  and  especially  did 
the  great  freeze  of  January  cause  intense  suffering.  On  the  25th  of  that 
month,  Gen.  Knyphausen  sent  two  raiding  expeditions  into  New  Jersey. 
One  was  commanded  by  Col.  Abraham  Van  Buskirk  who  with  400  men 
crossed  on  the  ice  from  Staten  Island  to  Elizabethtown  where  he  burned 
the  town-hall  and  Parson  Cald well's  church  and  captured  forty-six  of  the 
post-guard;  the  other  was  commanded  by  Maj.  Lumm  who  with  500  men 
crossed  the  Hudson  river  on  the  ice  and  advanced  to  Newark  where  he 
burned  the  academy  and  captured  thirty-four  Americans. 

The  sufferings  of  Joseph  Hedden,  Jr.,  a  staunch  patriot  who  was 
seized  and  carried  off  by  Lumm's  soldiers,  are  related  by  Dr.  Thomas  Ward 
in  his  ballad  The  Martyr  ;  every  item  in  the  poetical  narrative  can  be 
verified  by  statements  from  history,  but  some  local  historians  state  that 
it  was  a  patriotic  American  by  the  name  of  Eleazer  Bruen  who  gave  the 
blanket  to  Joseph  Hedden. 

Joseph  Hedden  was  a  Commissioner  for  the  seizing  and  inventory 
ing  of  the  estates  and  effects  of  persons  gone  over  to  the  enemy,  a  position 
which  drew  upon  him  the  bitter  hatred  of  the  loyalists. 

The  raiders  entered  his  house,  dragged  him  from  a  sick  bed  and 
compelled  him  scantily  clad,  shoeless,  stocking-less,  with  his  swollen  feet 
wrapped  in  flannels,  to  accompany  them  on  their  retreat  to  New  York 
city.  There  he  was  confined  in  the  Sugar  House  prison,  a  five-story  stone 
building  on  Liberty  street. 

[97] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


His  feet  and  legs  began  to  mortify  because  of  the  exposures  and 
hardships  which  he  had  suffered;  and  when  it  became  evident  that  he 
could  not  live  much  longer,  notice  was  sent  to  his  relatives  at  Newark 
that  they  might  come  and  take  him  away.  Accordingly,  his  brothers 
David  and  Simon  went  to  New  York  and  brought  him  home,  where  he 
died  September  27,  1780,  in  the  fifty-second  year  of  his  age.  The  inscrip 
tion  on  his  tombstone  read,  "He  was  a  firm  friend  of  his  country  in  the 
darkest  times,  zealous  for  American  Liberty  in  opposition  to  British 
Tyranny,  and  at  last  fell  a  victim  of  British  cruelty." 


PARSON  CALD WELL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

June  23,  1780. 

From  Ballads  of  New  Jersey  in  the  Revolution,  by  permission  of 
Charles   D.    Platt;   copyright,    1896. 

See  the  Red-coats  in  the  distance  ! 

Here  they  come  !     To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
Get  your  powder-horn  and  musket  ! 

Call  the  neighbors  from  their  farms  ! 

Fire  the  roaring  eighteen-pounder 

Signal  gun  from  Prospect  Hill  ! 
Light  the  blazing  black  tar-barrel  ! 

Fight  we  must  and  fight  we  will  ! 

Jump  the  stone  wall  by  the  roadside  ! 

Hide  behind  it  !     Prime  your  gun  ! 
Now  we're  ready  !     See  them  gather  ! 

Farmers  coming  on  the  run  ! 

Who's  that  riding  in  on  horseback? 

Parson   Caldwell,   boys;    Hooray  ! 
Red-coats  call  him  "Fighting  Chaplain;" 

How  they  hate  him  !     well  they  may  ! 

When  he  preaches  to  us  Sundays, 

Gathered  in  the  Old  Red  Store, 
Down  he  lays  his  cavalry  pistols, 

Sets  his  sentinels  at  the  door. 

Boys,  remember  how  the  British, 

Passing  through  Connecticut  Farms, 

Shot  the  parson's  wife  !     That  murder 
Stirs  us  more  than  wild  alarms. 

[98] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Hah  !     The  fight's  begun  !     They're  firing  ! 

See  the  flash  of  British  steel  ! 
Hear  the  crack  of  Jersey  muskets  ! 

Doomed  to  make  the  Red-coats  wheel! 

Who's  that  riding  on  the  gallop, 

Stopping  by  the  meetin'-house  door? 

In  he  goes — comes  out  with  arms  full, 
Piled  with  hymn-books  by  the  score. 

Parson  Caldwell  ! — Will  he  sing  now, 
While  the  bullets  round  him  hum  ? 

Will  he  hold  another  meetin', 

Set  the  hymns  to  fife  and  drum  ? 

Hear  him   shouting,  "Give   'em  Watts,  boys  ! 

Put  Watts  into  'em,  my  men!" 
Ah!     I  see  they're  out  of  wadding; 

That's  the  tune!     We'll  all  join  in! 

Then  the  worn  old  hymn-books  fluttered, 

And  their  pages  wildly  flew, 
Hither,  thither,  torn  and  dirty, 

On  an  errand  strange  and  new. 

Making  Short  Particular  meter 

Parson  Caldwell  pitched  the  tunes ; 

Jersey  farmers  joined  the  chorus, 

Put  to  flight  those  red  dragoons  . 

Charles  D.  Plait. 


Rev.  James  Caldwell  was  born  in  Virginia,  graduated  at  Prince 
ton,  and  in  1763  became  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  church  at  Eliza- 
bethtown,  New  Jersey.  He  married  Hannah,  daughter  of  John  Ogden, 
of  Newark.  He  was  an  influential,  and  ardent  patriot ;  the  British  called 
him  the  Fighting  Parson  and  the  Rebel  High  Priest.  The  roll  of  his 
parishoners  contained  the  names  of  thirty-six  commissioned  officers  who 
served  in  the  patriotic  army.  He  was  chaplain  in  the  Jersey  Line  and 
accompanied  the  Third  Battalion,  Elias  Dayton,  Colonel,  on  its  expedi 
tion  to  Ticpnderoga  during  February  and  March,  1777. 

During  the  month  of  June,  1780,  the  British  army  made  two  dis 
tinct  forward  movements  from  its  base  on  Staten  Island,  against  the 
American  position  at  Morristown ;  but  it  only  succeeded  in  each  case  in 
reaching  Springfield.  The  first  expedition  was  made  under  Gen.  Knyp- 
hausen  who  on  June  6th  advanced  as  far  as  Springfield;  it  was  during 
this  expedition  that  the  British  general  Sterling  was  fatally  wounded  at 
Elizabeth,  and  that  Mrs.  James  Caldwell  was  killed  by  a  bullet  from  the 
gun  of  a  British  soldier. 

[99] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  second  advance  was  led  by  Sir  Henry  Clinton  who  on  June 
23rd  moved  forward  to  Springfield  in  two  columns;  it  was  during  this 
attempt  that  the  battle  of  Springfield  was  fought  and  that  the  well- 
known  incident  of  the  hymn-books  occurred. 

"None,"  says  Washington  Irving,  "showed  more  ardor  in  the  fight 
than  Caldwell  the  chaplain  who  distributed  Watts'  psalm  and  hymn 
books  among  the  soldiers  when  they  were  in  want  of  wadding,  with  the 
shout  'Put  Watts  into  them,  boys'." 

One  month  after  hearing  the  joyful  news  of  the  surrender  of  Corn- 
wallis  at  Yorktown,  Parson  Caldwell  was  wantonly  shot  and  killed  on 
November  24,  1781,  at  Elizabeth  by  an  American  sentry.  Mr.  Cadwell 
had  gone  to  the  wharf  to  welcome  some  friends  who  had  just  come  there 
by  boat.  His  murderer  was  delivered  over  to  the  civil  authorities,  and 
was  tried,  convicted  and  executed. 


CALDWELL  OF  SPRINGFIELD. 

June  23,  1780. 

From  Complete  Works  of  Bret  Harte;  copyright  1882  by 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Company. 

Here's  the  spot.     Look  around  you.     Above  on  the  height 
Lay   the   Hessians  encamped.     By   that  church   on  the  right 
Stood  the  gaunt  Jersey  farmers.     And  here  ran  a  wall — 
You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you'll  turn  up  a  ball. 
Nothing  more.     Grasses  spring,  waters  run,  flowers  blow 
Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years  ago. 

Nothing  more,  did  I  say?     Stay  one  moment;  you've  heard 

Of  Caldwell,  the  parson,  who  once  preached  the  Word 

Down  at  Springfield?  What,  no?  Come — that's  bad,  why,  he  had 

All  the  Jerseys  aflame  !     And  they  gave  him  the  name 

Of  the  rebel  "high  priest."     He  stuck  in  their  gorge, 

For  he  loved  the  Lord  God, — and  he  hated  King  George  ! 

He  had  cause,  you  might  say  !     When  the  Hessians  that  day 
Marched  up  with  Knyphausen,  they  stopped  on  their  way 
At  the  "Farms,"  where  his  wife,  with  a  child  in  her  arms, 
Sat  alone  in  the  house.     How  it  happened  none  knew 
But  God — and  that  one  of  the  hireling  crew 
Who  fired  the  shot  !     Enough  ! — there  she  lay, 
And  Caldwell,  the  chaplain,  her  husband,  away  ! 

Did  he  bear  it — what  way  ?  Think  of  him  as  you  stand 
By  the  old  church  to-day ; — think  of  him  and  that  band 
Of  militant  ploughboys  !  See  the  smoke  and  the  heat 

[100] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Of  that  reckless  advance — of  that  straggling  retreat  ! 
Keep  the  ghost  of  that  wife,  foully  slain,  in  your  view, 
And  what  could  you,  what  should  you,  what  would  you  do? 

Why,  just  what  he  did  !     They  were  left  in  the  lurch 

For  the  want  of  more  wadding.     He  ran  to  the  church, 

Broke  the  door,  stripped  the  pews,  and  dashed  out  in  the  road 

With  his  arms  full  of  hymnbooks,  and  threw  down  his  load 

At  their  feet  !   then  above  all  the  shouting  and  shots, 

Rang  his  voice,  "Put  Watts  into  'em, — Boys,  give  'em  Watts  !" 

And  they  did.     That  is  all.     Grasses  spring,  flowers  blow 

Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years  ago. 

You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you'll  turn  up  a  ball, — 

But  not  always  a  hero  like  this, — and  that's  all. 

Bret  Harte. 


THE  COW  CHACE. 

During  the  month  of  July,  1780,  Washington  had  his  headquarters 
at  Preakness  in  Passaic  county,  while  the  main  part  of  his  army  was 
encamped  about  three  miles  away  at  Totowa  (now  Paterson). 

The  British,  occupying  New  York  city  and  being  in  constant  need 
of  firewood,  organized  a  special  company  of  wood-choppers  and  sent 
them  across  into  New  Jersey  and  for  the  protection  of  these  workmen, 
built  a  block-house  fifteen  feet  square  on  the  Palisades  above  Weehawken 
(opposite  Eighteenth  street,  New  York  city),  and  fortified  it  with  a  stock 
ade  and  a  ditch,  equipped  it  with  two  cannon  and  garrisoned  it  with  seven 
ty  tories  and  refugees.  The  "Raven,"  a  British  vessel,  in  her  regular 
trips  to  the  wharf  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  for  cord  wcod,  took  on  also  such 
grain  and  cattle  as  could  be  bought  for  gold  from  the  tories  of  the  neigh 
borhood. 

Washington  and  Wayne  laid  a  plan  to  capture  this  block-house- 
Their  main  object,  of  course,  was  to  break  up  this  source  of  supplies  for 
the  British  army,  but  incidentally  they  hoped  to  gain  other  advantages. 
They  desired  to  round  up  and  drive  into  their  own  camp  the  cattle  now 
being  gradually  taken  by  the  British  to  New  York.  Furthermore,  as 
soon  as  the  British  in  New  York  should  learn  of  the  attack,  re-inforce- 
ments  would  naturally  be  hurried  across  the  Hudson  to  land  above  the 
block-house,  assail  the  Americans  in  the  rear  and  cut  off  their  retreat. 
It  was  Wayne's  hope  that  he  might  entice  these  anticipated  new-comers 
into  an  ambuscade  at  the  ravine  through  which  they  would  have  to  climb 
the  palisades.  The  plan  seems  like  a  good  one,  but  the  result  was  a  mis 
erable  failure. 

Wayne,  having  made  a  personal  inspection  of  the  ground  the  day 
before  as  in  the  search  of  deserters,  started  from  Paterson  on  July  20, 
1780,  with  the  first  and  second  brigades  of  the  Pennsylvania  line,  Moylan's 
dragoons  and  four  six-pounders,  crossing  the  Hackensack  at  New  Bridge 
and  marching  by  way  of  Liberty  Pole  (now  Englewood).  Having  con 
cealed  a  line  of  pickets  along  the  bank  of  the  Hudson  and  placed  a  strong 
orce  in  ambuscade  at  the  ravine,  and  having  sent  Moylan  to  gather  in  the 

[101] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


cattle  from  Teaneck  and  the  English  Neighborhood,  he  told  his  men  to 
act  as  sharpshooters  and  pour  a  continuous  stream  of  bullets  into  the 
loopholes  so  that  those  within  could  not  shoot  out;  and  then  he  ordered  his 
artillerymen,  thus  protected,  to  advance  and  plant  their  cannon  within 
short  range  and  open  fire  with  solid  shot  in  order  to  demolish  the  block 
house.  After  this  cannonading  had  been  kept  up  about  an  hour,  word 
was  brought  to  Wayne  by  his  watchers  along  the  Hudson  that  boats 
filled  with  British  soldiers  were  about  to  land  at  the  ravine;  accordingly 
he  ordered  his  troops  to  withdraw  from  the  block-house,  intending  to  lead 
them  to  join  the  ambuscade.  His  soldiers,  exasperated,  and  not  under 
standing  the  motive  of  the  retreat,  disobeyed  orders  and  charged  directly 
on  the  block-house.  This  allowed  the  refugees  to  fire  from  the  loop 
holes  on  the  Americans  with  great  effect,  killing  fifteen  and  wounding 
forty-nine.  The  tory  loss  was  only  six  killed  and  fifteen  wounded,  and 
the  block-house  was  not  captured.  The  boats  did  not  land  and  so  the 
ambuscade  was  a  failure.  All  Wayne  got  was  the  cows;  but  as  an  after 
thought,  he  claimed  that  he  had  delayed  for  several  days  an  expedition 
which  was  preparing  to  sail  to  Newport,  R.  I.,  there  to  act  against  our 
allies  the  French.  General  Washington  and  the  Americans  everywhere 
felt  very  much  mortified  over  this  defeat,  especially  occurring  as  it  did 
while  both  parties  were  claiming  a  victory  at  the  recent  battle  of  Mon- 
mouth;  and  the  British  were  correspondingly  jubilant. 


CANTO  1. 

To  drive  the  kine  one  summer's  morn, 

The  tanner  took  his  way ; 
The  calf  shall  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  jumbling  of  that  day. 

And  Wayne  descending  steers  shall  know, 

And  tauntingly  deride, 
And  call  to  mind,  in  ev'ry  low, 

The  tanning  of  his  hide. 

Yet  Bergen  cows  still  ruminate 

Unconscious  in  the  stall, 
What  mighty  means  were  used  to  get, 

And — lose  them  after  all. 

For  many  heroes  bold  and  brave 

From  New  Bridge  and  Tapaan, 

And  those  that  drink  Passaic's  wave. 
And  those  that  eat  soupaan, 

And  sons  of  distant  Delaware, 
And  still  remoter  Shannon, 

And  Major  Lee  with  horses  rare, 

And  Proctor  with  his  cannon, — 


[102] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


All  wondrous  proud  in  arms  they  came — 

What  hero  could  refuse, 
To  tread  the  rugged  path  to  fame, 

Who  had  a  pair  of  shoes? 

At  six  the  host,  with  sweating  buff, 

Arrived  at  Freedom's  Pole, 
Where  Wayne  who  thought  he'd  time  enough, 

Thus  speechified  the  whole: 

"O  ye  whom  glory  doth  unite, 

Who  Freedom's  cause  espouse, 
Whether  the  wing  that's  doomed  to  fight, 
Or  that  to  drive  the  cows; 

Ere  yet  you  tempt  your  further  way, 

Or  into  action  come, 
Hear,  soldiers,  what  I  have  to  say, 

And  take  a  pint  of  rum. 

In  temp 'rate  valor  then  will  string 

Each  nervous  arm  the  better, 
So  all  the  land  shall  10  !  sing, 

And  read  the  gen'ral's  letter. 

Know  that  some  paltry  refugees, 

Whom  I've  a  mind  to  fight, 
Are  playing  h — 1  among  the  trees 

That  grow  on  yonder  height. 

Their  fort  and  block-house  we'll  level, 

And  deal  a  horrid  slaughter; 
We'll  drive  the  scoundrels  to  the  devil, 

And  ravish  wife  and  daughter. 

I  under  cover  of  the  attack, 

Whilst  you  are  all  at  blows, 
From  English  Neighb'rhood  and  Tinack 

Will  drive  away  the  cows. 

For  well  you  know  the  latter  is 

The  serious  operation, 
And  fighting  with  the  refugees 

Is  only  demonstration. 

[103] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


His  daring  words  from  all  the  crowd 
Such  great  applause  did  gain, 

That  every  man  declared  aloud 
For  serious  work  with  Wayne. 

Then  from  the  cask  of  rum  once  more 

They  took  a  heavy  gill, 
When  one  and  all  they  loudly  swore 

They'd  fight  upon  the  hill. 

But  here — the  muse  has  not  a  strain 

Befitting  such  great  deeds, 
"Hurra,"  they  cried,  "hurra  for  Wayne  !  " 
And  shouting — did  their  needs. 

CANTO  2. 

Near  his  meridian  pomp,  the  sun 

Hadjourney'd  from  the  horizon, 

When  fierce  the  dusky  tribe  mov'd  on 
Of  heroes  drunk  as  poison. 

The  sounds  confused  of  boasting  oaths 
Re-echoed  through  the  wood, 

Some  vow'd  to  sleep  in  dead  men's  clothes, 
And  some  to  swim  in  blood. 

At  Irvine's  nod,  'twas  fine  to  see 

The  left  prepared  to  fight, 
The  while  the  drovers,  Wayne  and  Lee, 

Drew  off  upon  the  right. 

Which  Irvine  'twas,  Fame  don't  relate, 

Nor  can  the  Muse  assist  her, 
Whether  'twas  he  that  cocks  a  hat, 

Or  he  that  gives  a  glister. 

For  greatly  one  was  signalized, 
That  fought  at  Chestnut  Hill 

And   Canada   immortalized 
The  vender  of  the  pill. 

Yet  the  attendance  upon  Proctor 

They  both  might  have  to  boast  of ; 

For  there  was  business  for  the  doctor, 
And  hats  to  be^disposed  of. 


[104] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Let  none  uncandidly  infer 

That  Stirling  wanted  spunk, 
The  self-made  peer  had  sure  been  there, 

But  that  the  peer  was  drunk. 

But  turn  we  to  the  Hudson's  banks, 

Where  stood  the  modest  train, 
With  purpose  firm,  though  slender  ranks, 

Nor  car'd  a  pin  for  Wayne. 

For  them  the  unrelenting  hand 

Of  rebel  fury  drove, 
And  tore  from  ev'ry  genial  band 

Of  friendship  and  of  love. 

And  some  within  a  dungeon's  gloom, 

By  mock  tribunals  laid, 
Had  waited  long  a  cruel  doom, 

Impending  o'er  their  heads. 

Here  one  bewails  a  brother's  fate, 

There  one  a  sire  demands, 
Cut  off,  alas  !  before  their  date, 

By  ignominious  hands. 

And  silver'd  grandsires  here  appear'd 

In  deep  distress  serene, 
Of  reverend  manners  that  declared 

The  better  days  they'd  seen. 

Oh  !  curs'd  rebellion,  these  are  thine, 

Thine  are  these  tales  of  woe; 
Shall  at  thy  dire  insatiate  shrine 

Blood  never  cease  to  flow? 

And  now  the  foe  began  to  lead 

His  forces  to  th'  attack; 
Balls  whistling  unto  balls  succeed, 

And  make  the  block-house  crack. 

No  shot  could  pass,  if  you  will  take 

The  gen'ral's  word  for  true; 
But  'tis  a  d — ble  mistake, 

For  ev'ry  shot  went  through. 

[105] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  firmer  as  the  rebels  pressed, 

The  loyal  heroes  stand; 
Virtue  had  nerv'd  each  honest  breast, 

And  Industry  each  hand. 

In  valor's  phrensy,  Hamilton 

Rode  like  a  soldier  big, 
And  Secretary  Harrison, 

With  pen  stuck  in  his  wig. 

But,  lest  chieftain  Washington 

Should  mourn  them  in  the  mumps, 

The  fate  of  Withrington  to  shun, 

They  fought  behind  the  stumps. 

But  ah  !  Thaddeus  Posset,  why 

Should  thy  poor  soul  elope  ? 
And  why  should  Titus  Hooper  die, 

Ah!  die — without  a  rope? 

Apostate  Murphy,  thou  to  whom 

Fair  Shela  ne'er  was  cruel, 
In  death  shalt  hear  her  mourn  thy  doom: 
"Och  !  would  ye  die,  my  jewel?  " 

Thee,  Nathan  Pumpkin,  I  lament, 

Of  melancholy  fate, 
The  grey  goose,  stolen  as  he  went, 

In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

Now  as  the  fight  was  further  fought, 

And  balls  began  to  thicken, 
The  fray  assum'd,  the  gen'rals  thought, 

The  color  of  a  licking. 

Yet  un dismay 'd  the  chiefs  command, 

And.  to  redeem  the  day, 
Cry,  "Soldiers,  charge  !  "     They  hear,  they  stand, 

They  turn  and  run  away. 

CANTO  3. 

Not  all  delights  the  bloody  spear, 

Or  horrid  din  of  battle, 
They  are,  I'm  sure,  who'd  like  to  hear 

A  word  about  the  cattle. 


[106] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


The  chief  whom  we  beheld  of  late, 

Near  Schralenberg  haranguing, 
At  Yan  Van  Poop's  unconscious  sat 

Of  Irvine's  hearty  banging; 

While  valiant  Lee,  with  courage  wild, 

Most  bravely  did  oppose 
The  tears  of  woman  and  of  child, 

Who  begg'd  he'd  leave  the  cows. 

But  Wayne,  of  sympathizing  heart, 

Required  a  relief, 
Not  all  the  blessings  could  impart 

Of  battle  or  of  beef. 

For  now  a  prey  to  female  charms, 

His  soul  took  more  delight  in 
A  lovely  Hamadryad's  arms, 

Than  cow-driving  or  fighting. 

A  nymph,  the  refugees  had  drove 

Far  from  her  native  tree, 
Just  happen'd  to  be  on  the  move, 

When  up  came  Wayne  and  Lee. 

She  in  Mad  Anthony's  fierce  eye 

The  hero  saw  portray 'd, 
And,  all  in  tears,  she  took  him  by 

— the  bridle  of  his  jade. 

"Hear,"  said  the  nymph,  "O  great  commander, 

No  human  lamentations, 
The  trees  you  see  them  cutting  yonder 
Are  all  my  near  relations. 

And  I,  forlorn,  implore  thine  aid 

To  free  the  sacred  grove: 
So  shall  thy  prowess  be  repaid 

With  an  immortal's  love." 

Now  some,  to  prove  she  was  a  goddess  ! 

Said  this  enchanting  fair 
Had  late  retired  from  the  Bodies, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  war ; 

[107] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


That  drums  and  merry  fifes  had  play'd 

To  honor  her  retreat, 
And  Cunningham  himself  conveyed 

The  lady  through  the  street. 

Great  Wayne  by  soft  compassion  sway'd 

To  no  inquiry  stoops, 
But  takes  the  fair,  afflicted  maid 

Right  into  Yan  Van  Poop's. 

So  Roman  Anthony,  they  say, 
Disgraced  th'  imperial  banner, 

And  for  a  gipsy  lost  a  day, 
Like  Anthony  the  tanner. 

The  Hamadryad  had  but  half 

Received  redress  from  Wayne, 

When  drums  and  colors,  cow  and  calf, 
Came  down  the  road  amain. 

All  in  a  cloud  of  dust  were  seen, — 
The  sheep,  the  horse,  the  goat, 

The  gentle  heifer,  ass  obscene, 
The  yearling  and  the  shoat. 

And  pack-horses  with  fowls  came  by , 
Befeathered  on  each  side, 

Like  Pegasus,  the  horse  that  I 
And  other  poets  ride. 

Sublime  upon  the  stirrups  rose 

The  mighty  Lee  behind, 
And  drove  the  terror-smitten  cows, 

Like  chaff  before  the  wind. 

But  sudden  see  the  woods  above 

Pour  down  another  corps, 
All  helter  skelter  in  a  drove, 

Like  that  I  sung  before. 

Irvine  and  terror  in  the  van, 

Came  flying  all  abroad, 
And  cannon,  colors,  horse,  and  man, 

Ran  tumbling  to  the  road. 


[108] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

Still  as  he  fled,  'twas  Irvine's  cry, 

And  his  example  too, 
"Run  on,  my  merry  men  all — for  why? 

The  shot  will  not  go  through." 

Five  refugees  ('tis  true)  were  found 
Stiff  on  the  block-house  floor, 

But  then  'tis  thought  the  shot  went  round, 
And  in  at  the  back  door. 

As  when  two  kennels  in  the  street 

Swell 'd  with  a  recent  rain, 
In  gushing  streams  together  meet 

And  seek  the  neighboring  drain ; 

So  meet  these  dung-born  tribes  in  one, 

As  swift  in  their  career, 
And  so  to  New  Bridge  they  ran  on — 

But  all  the  cows  got  clear. 

Poor  Parson  Caldwell,  all  in  wonder, 

Saw  the  returning  train, 
A.nd  mourn 'd  to  Wayne  the  lack  of  plunder, 

For  them  to  steal  again. 

For  'twas  his  right  to  seize  the  spoil,  and 
To  share  with  each  commander, 

As  he  had  done  at  Staten  Island 
With  frost-bit  Alexander. 

In  his  dismay,  the  frantic  priest 

Began  to  grow  prophetic, 
You  had  swore,  to  see  his  lab 'ring  breast, 

He'd  taken  an  emetic. 

"I  view  a  future  day,"  said  he, 

"Brighter  than  this  day  dark  is, 
And  you  shall  see  what  you  shall  see, 
Ha  !  ha  !  one  pretty  marquis, 

And  he  shall  come  to  Paulus'  Hook, 
And  great  achievements  think  on, 

And  make  a  bow  and  take  a  look, 
Like  Satan  over  Lincoln. 


[109] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


And  all  the  land  around  shall  glory 
To  see  the  Frenchman  caper, 

And  pretty  Susan  tell  the  story 
In  the  next  Chatham  paper." 

This  solemn  prophecy,  of  course, 

Gave  all  much  consolation, 
Except  to  Wayne,  who  lost  his  horse 

Upon  the  great  occasion, — 

His  horse  that  carried  all  his  prog, 

His  military  speeches, 
His  corn-stalk  whiskey  for  his  grog — 

Blue  stockings  and  brown  breeches. 

And  now  I've  closed  my  epic  strain, 

I  tremble  as  I  show  it, 
Lest  this  same  warrio-drover,  Wayne, 

Should  ever  catch  the  poet. 

Major  John  Andre. 

Written  at  Elizabethtown,  N,  J., 
August  1,  1780. 


This  poem  is  full  of  allusions  to  the  men  of  that  day  and  to  con 
temporary  events  that  have  long  since  passed  out  of  the  public  mind;  it 
has  passages  in  parody  of  other  poems;  and  it  contains  quotations  from 
documents,  and  some  references  to  the  broader  field  of  literature.  I  will 
endeavor  by  means  of  copious  notes  to  present  to  the  student  of  literature 
an  adequate  setting  for  this  unique  ballad  made  famous,  as  it  has  been, 
by  association  with  one  of  the  saddest  episodes  of  our  Revolutionary  his 
tory,  first  giving  an  account  of  the  several  persons  mentioned  in  the 
poem  ;  next  discussing  some  matters  of  a  general  literary  character; 
and  finally  commenting  on  such  other  passages  as  may  seem  to  re 
quire  explanation. 

Major  General  Henry  Lee  (Light  Horse  Harry),  of  Virginia,  gradu 
ated  from  Princeton  in  the  class  of  1774.  He  won  fame  as  a  cavalry  lead 
er  during  the  Revolutionary  war.  He  assisted  Wayne  in  the  capture  of 
Stony  Point,  and  made  a  successful  attack  on  Paulus  Hook.  He  coined 
the  expression,  "First  in  war,  first  in  peace,  first  in  the  hearts  of  his 
countrymen."  Light  Horse  Harry  was  the  father  of  Robert  E.  Lee,  the 
confederate  Chieftain. 

There  were  two  American  officers  by  the  surname  of  Irvine.  Their 
Christian  names  were  James  and  William;  James  was  a  hatter  by  trade i 
and  William  was  a  physician.  Brig-Gen,  "tames  Irvine  was  captured  on 
December  5,  1777,  at  Chestnut  Hill,  near  Philadelphia,  by  British  troops 
under  Col.  Abercrombie,  of  Sir  William  Howe's  army. 

Col.  William  Irvine  had  served  under  Sullivan  in  the  expedition 
against  Canada  and  been  taken  prisoner  on  June  8,  1777,  at  Three  Rivers 

[MO] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


on  the  St.  Lawrence.  After  remaining  in  captivity  nearly  two  years,  he 
was  exchanged  and  took  part  in  the  battle  of  Monmouth.  At  the  time  of 
this  foray  at  Paulus  Hook,  he  was  in  command  of  the  Second  Pennsyl 
vania  regiment. 

Wayne's  troops  on  this  foray  were  of  the  Pennsylvania  line,  and 
nearly  all  of  them  were  Scotch-Irish  settlers  who  had  been  born  in  Ireland 
but  had  emigrated  to  America  and  settled  in  Pennsylvania;  and  this  ex 
plains  the  lines  of  the  poem: 

And  sons  of  distant  Delaware 
And  still  remoter  Shannon. 

During  the  battle  of  Monmouth,  Col.  Alexander  Hamilton,  then 
a  young  officer  twenty-two  years  of  age,  had  an  exciting  interview  with 
the  traitorous  General  Charles  Lee.  A  few  days  after  the  battle,  Lee, 
while  giving  evidence  in  his  own  defense  before  a  court-martial  presided 
over  by  Lord  Stirling,  described  the  gallant  bearing  and  conduct  of  young 
Hamilton  on  that  eventful  day  and  declared  that  Hamilton  appeared  to 
be  in  a  "phrensy  of  valor." 

Col.  Robert  H.  Harrison  and  Major  Andre  had  met  in  conferences 
at  Perth  Amboy,  N.  J.,  in  the  spring  of  1779,  to  negotiate  on  the  part  of 
their  respective  commanders  for  an  exchange  of  prisoners;  and  doubtless 
it  was  during  these  interviews  at  Perth  Amboy  that  Andre  had  seen 
Harrison  with  a  goose  quill  perched  above  his  ear.  Col.  Harrison  after 
ward  became  Chief  Justice  of  Maryland.  The  allusions  to  Colonels  Ham 
ilton  and  Harrison  in  the  following  stanza  thus  become  clear. 

In  valor's  phrensy  Hamilton 

Rode  like  a  soldier  big; 
And  Secretary  Harrison 

With  pen  stuck  in  his  wig. 

Lord  Stirling  was  an  active  and  patriotic  Jerseyman.  He  owned 
a  fine  plantation  in  Somerset  county.  His  name  was  William  Alexander; 
but  having  proved  in  1759  his  right  to  a  Scotch  peerage  according  to  the 
laws  of  Scotland  antecedent  to  the  Union,  he  took  the  title  Earl  of  Stir 
ling,  altho  the  British  parliament  in  1762  passed  a  resolution,  retroactive 
and  therefore  unjust,  forbidding  his  use  of  the  same.  This  explains  the 
allusion  to  Stirling  as  "the  self-made  peer."  A  secret  expedition  had 
been  planned  against  the  British  troops  on  Staten  Island  in  January, 
1780,  and  the  command  of  it  was  entrusted  by  Washington  to  Lord  Stir 
ling,  who  left  Morristown  on  the  morning  of  the  15th  with  2500  men  in 
sleds  and  crossed  to  Staten  Island  on  the  ice.  But  the  British  were  on 
the  alert;  and  Stirling  withdrew,  having  taken  a  few  prisoners  and  secured 
a  quantity  of  clothing.  The  weather  was  so  cold  that  many  of  the 
Americans  were  severely  frozen;  this  explains  the  reference  to  "frost 
bit"  Alexander. 

Susannah  Livingston,  of  Elizabeth,  N.  J.,  was  the  daughter  of  Gov. 
William  Livingston.  She  is  said  to  have  contributed  political  articles 
to  the  Journal  published  at  Chatham,  Morris  County.  She  married 
John  Cleves  Symmes;  and  their  daughter  Anna  became  the  wife  of  William 
Henry  Harrison,  President  of  the  United  States. 

Col.  Thomas  Proctor  was  an  officer  in  the  American  artillery.  He 
was  appointed  captain  in  1775,  and  became  major  in  1776  and  colonel  in 
1777.  He  commanded  the  guns  at  Chadd's  ford  in  the  battle  of  Brandy- 
wine  and  accompanied  Sullivan's  expedition  against  the  Indians.  He 
was  born  in  Ireland,  1739,  and  died  in  Philadelphia,  March  16,  1806. 

[Ill] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


William  Cunningham  was  the  British  Provost-Marshal  in  New 
York  city.  He  was  a  human  brute.  He  sold  for  his  own  profit  the  pro 
visions  furnished  to  him  for  the  prisoners,  thus  causing  hundreds  of 
Americans  to  die  of  starvation.  He  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  and 
came  to  America  in  1774.  Returning  to  England  after  the  war,  he  was 
hanged  for  forgery  in  1791. 

Chevy  Chace  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  old  ballads  of  Scotland.  It 
tells  how  Earl  Percy  went  into  the  Cheviot  Forest  to  steal  deer  and  how 
the  expedition  ended  in  disaster. 

Major  Andre's  Cow  Chace  is  modeled  after  Chevy  Chace,  imitating 
its  very  name;  it  tells  how  Gen.  Anthony  Wayne,  a  tanner  by  trade,  went 
to  Bergen  Neck,  Jersey  City,  to  steal  cattle  and  how  he  failed. 

Several  passages  in  the  Cow  Chace  can  be  fully  appreciated  only  by 
readers  who  are  familiar  with  Chevy  Chace. 
The  old  ballad  says: 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 

Earl  Percy  took  his  way; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

Andre's  modern  lampoon  says: 

To  drive  the  kine  one  summer's  mor 

The  tanner  took  his  way ; 
The  calf  shall  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  jumbling  of  that  day. 

The  original  says: 

For  Witherington  needs  must  I  wail 

As  one  in  doleful  dumps; 
For  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off 

He  fought  upon  his  stumps. 

Andre  pictures  Wayne's  men  as  seeking  shelter  behind  the  trees: 

But,  lest  Chieftain  Washington 

Should  mourn  them  in  the  mumps ; 

The  fate  of  Witherington  to  shun 
They  fought  behind  the  stumps. 

Witherington  fought  on  the  stumps  of  his  legs;  these  raiders  are 
described  as  sheltering  themselves  behind  the  tree-stumps  that  stood  in 
the  clearing  around  the  block-house. 

The  old  ballad  says  that  Montgomery's  blood  stained   the    feather  of 
the  arrow  that  killed  him: 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Montgomery 

So  right  his  shaft  he  set 
The  gray  goose-wing  that  was  thereon 

In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

Andre,  describing  the  death  of  one  of  the  marauders  named  Pumpkin 
says  that  he  had  stolen  a  goose  and  was  carrying  it  under  his  arm  when 
shot: 

Thee,  Nathan  Pumpkin,  I  lament, 

Of  melancholy  fate; 
The  gray  goose,  stolen  as  he  went, 
In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

[112] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


The  Scottish  ballad-singer  enumerates  the  herpes  who  fell;  the 
British  bard  does  so  too,  and  at  the  same  time,  by  giving  such  names  as 
Thaddeus  Posset,  Titus  Hooper,  Apostate  Murphy  and  Nathan  Pumpkin, 
seeks  to  ridicule  the  oddity  of  some  of  the  personal  names  of  the  American 
troops. 

Chevy  Chace  concludes  with  the  carrying  of  the  tidings  to  King 
Harry  of  England  who  in  his  grief  makes  a  vow  that  he  will  inflict  ven 
geance  ;  the  Cow  Chace  ends  with  the  announcement  of  the  failure  of  the 
expedition  to  Parson  Caldwell  who  prophesies  that  Marquis  Lafayette 
would  some  day  go  to  Jersey  City  and  do  wonders  by  way  of  retaliation 
on  the  British  and  that  the  achievements  of  this  young  French  officer 
would  be  chronicled  in  the  American  newspapers. 

In  ludicrously  bewailing  the  fall  of  Apostate  Murphy,  Andre  makes 
use  of  an  Irish  love-song  familiar  to  all  the  play-goers  of  that  day,  occur 
ring  in  Tobias  Smollett's  popular  comedy  The  Reprisal.  O'Clabber, 
describing  the  death  of  his  sweetheart  Sheelah,  says,  "We  were  all  a- 
merrymaking  at  the  castle  of  Ballyclough:  and  so  Sheelah  having  drank 
a  cup  too  much  fell  down  stairs  out  of  the  window.  When  I  came  to  her, 
she  told  me  she  was  speechless;"  and  thereupon  O'Clabber  composes  and 
sings  a  humorous  lamentation,  rich  in  Irish  bulls,  from  which  I  quote: 

Ye  swains  of  the  Shannon,  fair  Sheelah  is  gone; 

Ochone   my   dear  jewel, 

Why  was  you  so  cruel, 
Amidst  my  companions  to  leave  me  alone? 

In  beholding  your  charms,  I  can  see  them  no  more; 

If  you're  dead,  do  but  own  it, 

Then  you'll  hear  me  bemoan  it; 
For  in  loud  lamentation  your  fate  I'll  deplore. 

These  verses  serve  to  bring  out  the  force  of  Andre's  stanza;  as  though  one 
could  question  the  dead,  and  as  though  the  dead  could  hear  any  lamenta 
tion: 

Apostate  Murphy,  thou  to  whom 

Fair  Sheelah  ne'er  was  cruel, 
In  death  shalt  hear  her  mourn  thy  doom 
"Och!  would  ye  die  my  jewel?" 

Hamadryad  is  an  English  word  borrowed  from  the  Greek  and 
means  literally  "together  with  a  tree."  According  to  the  mythology  of 
the  Greeks,  every  lofty  wild-growing  tree  was  the  home  of  a  spirit,  or 
wood-nymph,  that  came  into  existence  with  that  particular  tree  and 
died  with  it.  These  wood-nymphs  were  called  Hamadryads. 

The  British  army,  cooped  up  in  New  York  city,  required  a  great 
deal  of  fire-wood  during  that  exceedingly  cold  winter.  A  regular  fuel- 
gathering  department  was  organized,  and  the  bands  of  choppers  were 
sent  out  under  heavy  guard  to  fell  trees  and  work  them  into  cord-wood. 
One  source  of  supply  was  the  woodland  near  the  block-house  at  Jersey 
city.  Wayne  in  his  speech  had  referred  to  the  choppers  as  playing  havoc 
among  the  trees.  According  to  the  fable,  as  each  tree  was  cut  down,  a 
wood-nymph  died ;  this  naturally  leads  to  the  story  o* 

A  nymph  the  refugees  had  drove 
Far  from  her  native  tree. 

And  this  is  the  nymph  who  is  represented  as  meeting  Wayne  and 
pleading  with  him  to  save  her  near  relations  by  driving  the  wood-choppers 
from  the  sacred  grove 

[113] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  tanner  took  his  way. — General  Wayne  had  been  a  tanner  by 
occupation.  The  British  satirists  were  fond  of  stigmatizing  the  American 
officers  as  of  inferior  social  rank.  In  a  subsequent  stanza,  too,  the  poet 
compares  Mark  Anthony,  the  Roman,  and  Mad  Anthony,  the  tanner. 

Who  lacked  a  pair  of  shoes — Concerning  the  lack  of  proper  clothing, 
Winthrop  Sargent  quotes  the  words  of  Matthews,  a  British  officer: 
"They  (the  American  prisoners)  are  of  a  thin  long-legged  make,  most  of 
them  without  shoes  and  stockings  and  without  coats."  And  I  may  quote 
the  words  of  a  patriotic  Jersey  woman,  Lydia  Lewis,  wife  of  Capt.  John 
Kirkpatrick,  who  said:  "We  sent  cattle  to  Morristown  to  be  killed  for 
the  soldiers.  I  myself  at  different  times  gave  the  men  food,  and  I  made 
salve  for  them  and  tore  up  my  linen  sheets  to  make  bandages  with  which 
they  could  bind  up  their  bleeding  feet." 

Freedom's  Pole — A  place  between  Orangetown  and  Teanack;  so 
named  because  at  that  place,  according  to  the  political  custom  of  the  day, 
the  patriots  had  held  political  meetings,  and  had  planted  firmly  in  the 
ground  a  slender  and  very  high  pole,  called  a  liberty  pole. 

Where  Wayne,  who  thought  he'd  time  enough, 
Thus  speechified  the  whole. 

It  was  the  style  of  the  old  historians  to  put  a  long  oration  in  the 
mouths  of  their  generals  before  a  battle;  Andre  imitates  this  style  by  har- 
ing  Wayne  deliver  a  harangue  during  the  halt  at  Freedom's  Pole. 

So  all  the  land  shall  10  sing,  And  read  the  Gen'ral's  letter — The  refer 
ence  here  is  to  a  letter  written  by  General  Washington  to  the  President 
of  the  Continental  Congress,  dated  July  26,  1780,  and  published  in  the 
Pennsylvania  Packet.  As  the  raid  occurred  on  July  21st,  the  letter  by 
slight  poetical  license  is  dragged  into  this  speech  five  days  before  it  was 
written. 

Kine,  an  old  plural  for  cow.  Soupaan,  a  hasty  pudding,  mush  and 
milk.  Buff,  a  coat,  a  military  coat  made  of  leather,  especially  of  buffalo- 
hide;  hence  the  name  buff.  Mumps,  a  disease  prevalent  in  the  American 
lines.  Bodies,  a  camp  appellation  given  to  the  corps  that  has  the  honor  to 
guard  the  king's  person.  Posset,  a  drink,  a  mixture  of  hot  milk  and 
liquor.  Jade,  an  old,  worn-out  horse.  Kennel,  a  channel,  a  gutter. 
Prog,  provisions,  victuals  obtained  by  begging.  Grog,  an  allowance  of 
rum-and-water  served  out  to  soldiers. 

And  some  within  a  dungeon's  gloom 
By  mock  tribunals  laid — 

This  is  an  allusion  to  the  patriotic  Committees  of  Safety  which  often 
exercised  almost  dictatorial  power  in  the  arrest,  examination,  imprison 
ment  and  banishment  of  tories. 

//  you  will  take  the  gen'ral's  word  for  true — Wayne  attributed  his 
failure  to  the  lightness  of  his  four  cannons  which  he  thought  made  no  im 
pression  on  the  logs  of  the  block-house.  Of  all  the  baseless  misrepresen 
tations  made  by  Andre  in  this  lampoon  the  most  cruel  is  the  charge  that 
Parson  Caldwell  had  shared  in  the  spoil  taken  on  Long  Island.  Lord 
Stirling  during  his  expedition  had  strictly  prohibited  all  pillaging  by  his 
soldiers;  but  some  irresponsible  persons  following  in  the  rear  of  his  troops 
had  seized  various  articles  of  private  property.  Lord  Stirling  having 
learned  of  thi  s  on  his  return  at  once  issued  orders  for  the  punishment 
of  the  guilty  parties;  and  Parson  Caldwell,  at  the  request  of  Stirling, 
had  assisted  in  ferreting  out  the  evil  doers,  in  collecting  the  plunder  and 
in  restoring  it  to  the  rightful  owners.  Such  were  the  facts,  yet  Andre 
has  dared  to  write  this  stanza: 

[114] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


For  'twas  his  right  to  sieze  the  spoil,  and 

To  share  with  each  commander, 
As  he  had  done  at  Staten  Island 

With  frost-bit  Alexander. 

Like  Satan  over  Lincoln — A  large  wooden  figure  of  the  Devil  stood 
for  many  years  on  top  of  Lincoln  college  in  Oxford  University,  England. 
The  head  of  the  image  was  torn  off  by  a  storm  in  1728,  and  two  years  there 
after  the  entire  body  was  taken  down.  As  Satan  took  a  look  but  was 
unable  to  do  any  injury,  so  (says  the  poet)  will  it  be  with  Lafayette. 

And  now  I  close  this  epic  strain, 

I  tremble  as  I  show  it, 
Lest  this  same  warrio-drover  Wayne 

Should  ever  catch  the  poet. 

To  no  other  satirical  poem  in  the  English  language,  perhaps  in  any 
language,  have  the  subsequent  developments  of  history  imparted  such 
a  sad  and  melancholy  interest. 

This  poem  was  published  in  James  Rivington's  Royal  Gazette 
the  leading  tory  newspaper  of  New  York  city.  The  first  canto  appeared 
August  16;  the  second  canto,  August  30;  and  the  last  canto,  September 
23,  1780.  September  23rd,  the  date  last  named,  was  the  very  day  on 
which  Andre  was  captured  at  Tarrytown,  N.  Y. ;  and  it  is  stated  that 
Major  Andre  during  his  imprisonment  was  at  one  time  under  the  charge 
•f  General  Wayne  as  officer  of  the  day. 

Some  person  whose  identity  is  unknown  wrote  below  the  signature 
•f  Major  Andre,  on  the  original  copy  of  the  Cow  Chace,  the  following 
stanza: 

When  the  epic  strain  was  sung, 
The  poet  by  the  neck  was  hung ; 
And  to  his  cost  he  finds  too  late 
The  dung-born  tribe  decides  his  fate. 

In  the  literary  war  which  was  waged  so  fiercely  between  the  wits 
•f  the  Americans  and  those  of  the  Loyalists,  it  was  give  and  take;  and  there 
is  not  the  slightest  resentment  felt  toward  the  memory  of  Major  Andre 
for  the  lampooning  which  he  administered  in  this  poem  to  our  national 
heroes,  Mad  Anthony  Wayne,  Light  Horse  Harry  Lee,  Major-General 
Lord  Stirling,  and  the  Rev.  James  Caldwell.  But  it  is  my  conviction  that 
Major  John  Andre  would  have  stood  higher  in  the  estimation  of  the  world 
to-day,  had  he  never  written  the  Cow  Chace;  its  touches  of  genuine 
humor  stand  to  his  credit  as  an  author,  but  it  is  undeniable  that  some  of 
the  verses  are  marked  by  coarseness.  It  is  this  coarseness  that  reflects  on 
the  author's  character;  this  coarseness  is  the  rift  in  the  lute. 

Winthrop  Sargent  in  his  Life  of  Major  Andre  notes  the  fact  that 
•either  Wayne  nor  Irvine  served  on  the  Board  of  General  Officers  who 
constituted  the  court-martial  for  the  trial  of  Andre  as  a  spy  altho  each 
was  by  rank  entitled  so  to  do ;  and  Sargent  suggests  as  a  reason  why  Wayne 
and  Irwin  did  not  so  serve,  that  they  were  prompted  by  a  delicate  sense 
of  propriety  lest  it  should  be  alleged  by  the  British  that  they  would  not  be 
impartial  judges  while  still  smarting  under  the  prisoner's  abusive  lampoon 

[us] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

SERGEANT  CHAMPE. 

Bergen  County,  October  20,  1780. 

As  soon  as  Benedict  Arnold  heard  of  the  arrest  of  John  Andre 
at  Tarrytown,  he  fled  from  West  Point  to  New  York  city  and  found 
safety  within  the  British  lines.  A  plan  was  laid  to  kidnap  Arnold.  It 
was  an  exceedingly  difficult  and  hazardous  undertaking ;  but  John  Champe, 
a  young  Virginian  of  athletic  frame  and  great  shrewdness  and  self- 
possession,  and  a  sergeant-major  in  Aaron  Ogden's  company,  volunteered 
for  the  service.  The  details  of  the  plan  were  approved  by  Washington 
with  the  express  stipulation  that  Arnold  was  under  no  circumstances  to 
be  killed  while  being  seized. 

Champe  was  to  desert  and  with  the  assistance  of  some  American 
spies  regularly  employed  in  New  York  city  was  to  seize  and  gag  Arnold 
and  convey  him  in  a  boat  to  the  Jersey  shore. 

To  begin  with,  the  very  act  of  deserting  should  be  managed  so 
cleverly  as  to  arouse  no  suspicion  of  his  insincerity  among  his  new  friends 
the  enemy.  In  fact,  it  was  dramatic  and  almost  cost  him  his  life.  Only 
one  subordinate  officer  was  admitted  to  the  secret,  and  that  was  Major 
Carnes,  the  officer  of  the  day,  who  was  to  see  that  Champe  had  an  oppor 
tunity  to  take  a  swift  horse  from  the  stables  at  midnight.  Champe  decided 
to  take  his  chances  in  riding  at  full  speed  past  the  picket  line.  He  dashed 
past  and  soon  the  picket  came  running  in  and  reported  that  somebody 
had  deserted.  Major  Carnes  pretended  that  there  must  be  some  mistake 
and  that  at  worst  it  was  only  one  of  the  men  going  on  a  lark.  After  as 
much  delay  as  possible,  the  men  were  roused,  the  roll  was  called, 
and  Champe  found  to  be  the  absentee.  A  party  of  twelve  men  under 
Cornet  William  Middleton  was  despatched  with  orders  to  bring  him  back 
alive  or  dead.  A  dash  of  rain  made  the  roads  muddy  but  revealed  the 
trail.  When  near  Bergen  Neck,  they  saw  Champe  half  a  mile  ahead  of 
them,  and  he  saw  them.  It  was  a  race  for  life,  and  Jersey  City  was  still 
four  miles  away. 

Moreover  there  was  a  new  danger  in  front  of  him;  for  every  even 
ing  a  few  horsemen  were  sent  down  from  camp  to  patrol  the  roads  in 
front  of  the  British  lines,  and  he  knew  he  might  come  upon  them  at  any 
moment.  The  road  forked,  one  branch  running  straight  to  Jersey  City 
and  the  other  bearing  to  the  right  but  joining  the  other  some  distance 
below.  Champe  bore  to  the  right,  fearing  to  meet  the  night  patrol. 
His  pursuers  divided  and  took  both  roads,  hoping  to  overtake  him  and 
also  to  head  him  off.  Realizing  that  he  could  not  reach  Jersey  City, 
Champe  turned  again  sharp  to  the  right  and  took  the  turnpike  leading 
to  Elizabeth.  Some  British  patrol  boats  which  were  in  Newark  Bay  saw 
Champe  coming  at  full  speed  and  his  pursuers  only  two  hundred  yards 
behind,  and  they  sent  men  in  row-boats  to  help  him.  Shots  were  ex 
changed.  Champe  escaped  but  the  Americans  captured  his  horse.  That 
was  October  20,  1780. 

Champe  was  conveyed  by  his  new  friends  to  Arnold's  headquar 
ters  at  No.  9  Broadway,  New  York  city,  where  he  was  questioned  very 
closely  for  some  time.  Arnold  was  completely  deceived  and  invited  him 
to  join  his  American  Legion  which  invitation  Champe  was  delighted  to 
accept.  Champe,  with  the  assistance  of  two  of  Washington  s  spies, 
arranged  the  details  for  the  seizure  of  Arnold,  appointed  the  night  for  the 
attempt,  even  loosened  the  palings  from  the  garden  fence,  and  sent  word 
to  Major  Lee  to  meet  him  and  the  captive  traitor  on  the  Jersey  shore. 

[116] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


But  on  that  very  day,  Arnold  changed  his  headquarters  and  ordered 
Champe  on  shipboard  to  sail  with  the  British  fleet  to  Chesapeake  Bay. 

Champe  deserted  the  British  at  Petersburg,  Va.,  and  joined  the 
American  army  under  General  Greene,  where,  strange  to  say,  he  met  the 
men  of  his  own  company  who  had  been  sent  south  by  Washington  and 
who  were  now  overjoyed  to  hear  from  his  own  lips  the  true  story  of  his 
adventures. 

Come  sheathe  your  swords!     my  gallant  boys, 

And  listen  to  my  story, 
How  Sergeant  Champe,  one  gloomy  night, 

Set  off  to  catch  the  tory. 

You  see  the  General  had  got  mad, 

To  think  his  plans  were  thwarted, 
And  swore  by  all,  both  good  and  bad, 
That  Arnold  should  be  carted. 

So  unto  Lee  he  sent  a  line 

And  told  him  all  his  sorrow, 
And  said  that  he  must  start  the  hunt 

Before  the  coming  morrow. 

Lee  found  a  sergeant  in  his  camp, 

Made  up  of  bone  and  muscle, 
Who  ne'er  knew  fear,  and  many  a  year 

With  tories  had  a  tussle. 

Bold  Champe,  when  mounted  on  old  Rip, 
All  buttoned  up  from  weather, 

Sang  out  "Good-bye,"  cracked  off  his  whip, 
And  soon  was  in  the  heather. 

He  galloped  on  towards  Paulus  Hook, 

Improving  every  instant — 
Until  a  patrol,  wide-awake, 

Descried  him  in  the  distance. 

On  coming  up,  the  guard  called  out 

And  asked  him  where  he's  going — 

To  which  he  answered  with  his  spur, 
And  left  him  in  the  mowing. 

The  bushes  passed  him  like  the  wind, 

And  pebbles  flew  asunder; 
The  guard  was  left  far,  far  behind, 

All  mixed  with  mud  and  wonder. 

[117] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Lee's  troops  paraded  all  alive, 

Altho  'twas  one  the  morning, 

And  counting  o'er  a  dozen  or  more, 
One  sergeant  is  found  wanting. 

A  little  hero,  full  of  spunk 

But  not  so  full  of  judgment, 

Pressed  Major  Lee  to  let  him  go, 

With  the  bravest  of  his  regiment. 

Lee  summoned  cornet  Middleton, 

Expressed  what  was  urgent 

And  gave  him  orders  how  to  go 

To  catch  the  rambling  sergeant. 

Then  forty  troopers,  more  or  less, 
Set  off  across  the  meader; 

'Bout  thirty-nine  went  jogging  on 
A-f  olio  wing  their  leader. 

At  early  morn,  adown  a  hill 

They  saw  the  sergeant  sliding; 
So  fast  he  went,  it  was  not  ken't, 

Whether  he's  rode,  or  riding. 

None  looked  back  but  on  they  spurred, 
A-gaining  every  minute. 

To  see  them  go,  'twould  done  you  good, 
You'd  thought  old  Satan  in  it. 

The  sergeant  missed'em  by  good  luck, 
And  took  another  tracing; 

He  turned  his  horse  from  Paulus  Hook, 
Elizabethtown  facing. 

It  was  the  custom  of  Sir  Hal 

To  send  his  galleys  cruising, 

And  so  it  happened  just  then, 

That  two  were  at  Van  Deusen's. 

Straight  unto  these  the  sergeant  went 
And  left  old  Rip,  all  standing, 

A-waiting  for  the  blown  cornet 

At  Squire  Van  Deusen's  landing. 


[118] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

The  troopers  didn't  gallop  home, 

But  rested  from  their  labors; 
And  some,  'tis  said,  took  gingerbread 

And  cider  from  their  neighbors. 

'Twas  just  at  eve  the  troopers  reached 

The  camp  they  left  that  morning; 

Champe's  empty  saddle  unto  Lee 
Gave  an  unwelcome  warning. 

"If  Champe  has  suffered,  'tis  my  fault," 

So  thought  the  generous  major, 
"I  would  not  have  his  garment  touched, 

For  millions  on  a  wager!" 

The  cornet  told  him  all  he  knew 

Excepting  of   the   cider: 
"The  troopers  all  spurred  very  well, 

But  Champe  was  the  best  rider." 

And  so  it  happened  that  brave  Champe 

Unto  Sir  Hal  deserted, 
Deceiving  him,  and  you  and  me, 

And  into  York  was  flirted 

He  saw  base  Arnold  in  his  camp, 

Surrounded  by  the  legion, 
And  told  him  of  the  recent  prank 

That  threw  him  in  that  region. 

Then  Arnold  grinned  and  rubbed  his  hands 
And  e'enmost  choked  with  pleasure, 

Not  thinking  Champe  was  all  the  while 
A-taking  of  his  measure. 

"Come  now,"  says  he,  "my  soldier  bold, 

As  you're  within  our  borders, 
Let's  drink  our  fill,  old  care  to  kill, 

To-morrow  you'll  have  orders." 

Full  soon  the  British  fleet  set  sail! 

Say!  wasn't  that  a  pity? 
For  thus  it  was  brave  Sergeant  Champe 

Was  taken  from  the  city. 

To  southern  climes  the  shipping  flew 

And  anchored  in  Virginia, 
When  Champe  escaped  and  joined  his  friends 

Among    the    picininni. 

Anonymous. 

[119] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

CAPTAIN  JOSH  BUDDY. 

April  12,   1782. 

The  Britishers  at  Sandy  Hook,  they  think  they're  mighty  big, 
(Each  soger  with  his  bright  red  coat,  gloves,  stock  an'   powdered 

wig); 

They've  lots  of  ships,  an'  lots  of  guns,  an'  men  a-plenty,  too — 
They  never  scairt  Josh  Huddy,  with  all  their  hullaballoo; 
An'  ef  they  left  their  ships-o'-war  to  foray  on  the  land, 
They  al'ays  had  to  reckon  with  his  Monmouth  County  band. 

It  won't  be  long  'fore  we  ketch  'em, 

'Fore  we  ketch  that  Tory  gang — 
A  Refugee's  good  as  a  Pine  Robber, 

And  a  Pine  Robber's  good  for  to  hang  ! 

Dick  Lippincott  an'  Cap'n  Tie,  the  Whites  an'  that  hull  gang, 
More'n  oncet  they  swore  that  'fore  the  dawn  they'd  see  Josh 

Huddy  hang; 

But  when  the  Refugees  an'  Reg'lars  scoured  the  country  round 
They's  apt  to  find  the  sly  ol'  fox  had  turned  into  a  hound — 
Afore  they'd  git  back  to  their  boats  Josh  Huddy 's  turn  come 

then, 
An'  he  would  hunt  the  hunters  with  his  Monmouth  County  men. 

They  ketch'd  him  at  Toms  River  Bridge,  when  they  was  five  to 

one — 

But  all  them  odds  agin  him  didn't  make  Josh  Huddy  run. 
Each  Tory  had  a  musket,  an'  each  Jarsey  lad  a  pike — 
We  laid  'em  out  a  man  for  man  afore  we  ceas'd  to  strike — 
With  numbers  they  outfou't  us,  we  could  stand  no  longer,  then 
They  captur'd  Cap'n  Huddy  of  the  Monmouth  County  men. 

They  took  him  from  his  prison  ship  out  to  his  native  shore — 
(They  knew  it  was  plain  murder;  they  call'd  it  an  act  of  war) 
His  gallus  was  three  fence  rails,  pointin'  up'ards  to  the  sky; 
But  Cap'n  Huddy  show'd  'em  how  a  Jarsey  boy  could  die. 
They  left  his  corpse  a-hangin'  as  they  hurried  from  the  strand, 
His  corpse,  to  call  for  vengeance,  to  his  Monmouth  County  band. 

Now  Bastard  Billy  Franklin,  an'  Dick  Lippincott,  an'  crew, 
We've  smoked  you  out  of  Jarsey  to  your  Tory  rendezvous; 

[120] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


An'  lest  ye  think  that  we've  forgot  you  an'  your  hellish  work, 
We'll  come  with  Cap'n  Hyler  an'  we'll  nab  you  in  New  York. 
For  Hell  is  yawnin'  for  you, — you'll  drop  plumb  to  the  Devil's 

den, 

Ef  oncet  you  git  within  the  reach  of  the  Monmouth  County  men. 

William  H.  Fischer. 


Joshua  Huddy,  of  Colts  Neck,  Monmouth  County,  was  a  sturdy 
patriot.  The  legislature  of  New  Jersey,  by  an  act  passed  September  24, 
1777,  authorized  him  to  raise  and  command  a  company  of  artillery. 

In  1782,  near  the  close  of  the  war,  Captain  Huddy  with  twenty- 
five  men  was  stationed  at  Toms  River  to  guard  the  salt-works,  to  check 
trade  with  the  enemy,  and  to  aid  our  privateers  who  brought  captured 
vessels  into  that  inlet.  His  troops  occupied  a  block-house,  or  more 
properly  a  stockade,  made  of  large  logs  eight  or  ten  feet  long  planted  up 
right  in  the  earth. 

A  strong  force  of  loyalists  came  in  brigs  and  whaleboats  at  day 
break  on  Sunday  morning,  March  24,  1782,  and  attacked  the  block-house. 
Huddy  and  his  men  made  a  gallant  defense ;  even  after  their  ammunition 
was  exhausted,  they  continued  the  fight  by  using  long  pikes,  until  nine 
of  their  number  had  been  killed.  Several  escaped;  but  the  others  were 
overpowered  in  a  hand-to-hand  struggle.  Huddy  was  sent  to  New  York 
city  and  put  in  the  Sugar  House,  a  British  prison. 

On  March  30th,  the  militia  of  Monmouth  County  captured  a  loyal 
ist  named  Philip  White;  while  being  conveyed  to  jail,  White  tried  to  es 
cape  and  was  killed  in  the  act. 

On  April  8th,  Huddy  was  taken  from  the  prison  in  New  York, 
placed  on  board  a  sloop,  put  in  irons,  and  informed  that  he  was  to  be 
hanged;  the  next  day  he  was  transferred  to  the  British  man-of-war, 
Brittania,  at  Sandy  Hook. 

On  the  morning  of  April  12th,  Capt.  Richard  Lippincott,  a  loyalist 
in  the  British  service,  claiming  to  act  under  verbal  orders  from  Sir  William 
Franklin  (last  royal  governor  of  New  Jersey)  as  President  of  a  so-called 
Board  of  Associated  Loyalists,  came  on  board  the  Brittania  and  took 
Huddy  ashore. 

In  violation  of  the  laws  of  God  and  man,  Lippincott  hanged  Cap 
tain  Huddy  at  ten  o'clock  that  forenoon  on  the  beach  at  Gravelly  Point 
along  the  Highlands  of  Navesink. 

"Huddy,"  writes  Thomas  P.  Gordon  in  his  History  of  New  Jersey, 
"was  a  man  of  extraordinary  bravery  and  met  his  hard  fate  with  rare 
fortitude  and  composure  of  mind." 

The  murderers  pinned  to  the  breast  of  their  victim  a  slip  of  paper 
with  an  inscription  concluding  Up  Goes  Huddy  for  Philip  White.  Huddy 
was  left  hanging  on  the  gallows  until  friends  came  in  the  afternoon  and 
took  him  to  Freehold  and  buried  him  with  the  honors  of  war. 

This  outrage  called  for  retaliation,  and  General  Washington 
ordered  the  execution  of  a  prisoner  of  war  to  be  selected  by  lot.  The  lot 
fell  to  Captain  Charles  Asgill;  his  life,  however,  was  spared  at  the  inter 
cession  of  the  King  and  Queen  of  France,  whose  appeal  for  mercy  pre 
vailed  because  it  was  with  the  co-operation  of  French  troops  that  Asgill 
had  been  captured  at  Yorktown. 

The  hanging  of  Captain  Huddy  was  plain  murder ;  and  the  respon 
sibility  for  that  awful  tragedy  rests  on  the  British  authorities.  From 

[121] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


the  American  point  of  view,  it  is  immaterial  which  British  officer  was 
guilty  or  how  many  officers  shared  in  that  guilt.  Traced  back  to  its 
source,  this  crime  grew  out  of  two  mistakes  on  the  part  of  the  British: 
death  under  the  plea  of  retaliation  should  never  have  been  inflicted  until 
after  investigation  and  formal  demand  for  redress,  and  an  irresponsible 
Board  of  Loyalists  should  never  have  been  allowed  for  a  moment  to  enter 
tain  the  idea  that  they  had  the  power  to  execute  prisoners  of  war. 

Capt.  Huddy  left  two  daughters;  and  to  them  Congress  afterward 
voted  600  acres  of  public  land  and  $9000  in  money,  the  money  repre- 
senting  the  regular  salary  of  a  captain  of  artillery  for  seven  years'  service 


WEEHAWKEN. 

Eve  o'er  our  path  is  stealing  fast; 
Yon  quivering  splendors  are  the  last 
The  sun  will  fling,  to  tremble  o'er 
The  waves  that  kiss  the  opposing  shore ; 
His  latest  glories  fringe  the  height 
Behind  us,  with  their  golden  light. 

The  mountain's  mirrored  outline  fades 
Amid   the   fast-extending   shades; 
Its  shaggy  bulk,  in  sterner  pride, 
Towers,  as  the  gloom  steals  o'er  the  tide; 
For  the  great  stream  a  bulwark  meet 
That  laves  its  rock-encumbered  feet. 

River  and  mountain  !  though  to  song 
Not  yet,  perchance,  your  names  belong; 
Those  who  have  loved  your  evening  hues 
Will  ask  not  the  recording  Muse 
What  antique  tales  she  can  relate 
Your  banks  and  steeps  to  consecrate. 

Yet,  should  the  stranger  ask  what  lore 
Of  bygone  days  this  winding  shore, 
Yon  cliffs  and  fir-clad  steeps,  could  tell, 
If  vocal  made  by  Fancy's  spell — 
The  varying  legend  might  rehearse 
Fit  themes  for  high,  romantic  verse. 

O'er  yon  rough  heights  and  moss-clad  sod 
Oft  hath  the  stalwart  warrior  trod; 
Or  peered,  with  hunter's  gaze,  to  mark 
The  progress  of  the  glancing  bark. 
Spoils,  strangely  won  on  distant  waves, 
Have  lurked  in  yon  obstructed  caves. 

[122] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


When  the  great  strife  for  Freedom  rose, 
Here  scouted  oft  her  friends  and  foes 
Alternate,  through  the  changeful  war, 
And  beacon-fires  flashed  bright  and  far ; 
And  here,  when  Freedom's  strife  was  won, 
Fell,  in  sad  feud,  her  favored  son — 

Her  son,  the  second  of  the  band, 
The  Romans  of  the  rescued  land. 
Where  round  yon  capes  the  banks  ascend, 
Long  shall  the  pilgrim's  footsteps  bend; 
There  mirthful  hearts  shall  pause  to  sigh, 
There  tears  shall  dim  the  patriot's  eye. 

There  last  he  stood.     Before  his  sight 
Flowed  the  fair  river,  free  and  bright ; 
The  rising  mart,  and  isles,  and  bay, 
Before  him  in  their  glory  lay — 
Scenes  of  his  love  and  of  his  fame — 
The  instant  ere  the  death-shot  came. 

Robert  Charles  Sands. 


Colonel  Alexander  Hamilton,  of  New  York  city,  was  a  young  artil 
lery  officer  in  the  Continental  army  and  fought  gallantly  at  Chattertom 
Hill,  Trenton,  Princeton,  Monmouth  and  Yorktown. 

He  was  one  of  America's  greatest  statesmen.  He  was  the  first 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury  of  the  United  States.  He  wrote  the  Federalist 
and  thus  exerted  a  powerful  influence  in  securing  the  ratification  of  the 
Constitution  of  the  United  States.  He  fell  in  a  duel  at  Weehawken  in 
1804;  the  duelling  ground  is  on  the  New  Jersey  side  of  the  Hudson  river 
nearly  opposite  Forty-second  street,  Manhattan. 


AARON  BURR'S  WOOING. 

From  Poems  of  E.  C.  Stedman,  by  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. ; 

copyrighted. 

From  the  commandant's  quarters  on  Westchester  height, 

The  blue  hills  of  Ramapo  lie  in  full  sight ; 

On  their  slope  gleam  the  gables  that  shield  his  heart's  queen, 

But  the  redcoats  are  wary — the  Hudson's  between. 

Through  the  camp  runs  a  jest:  "There's  no  moon — 'twill  be  dark ; 

'Tis  odds  little  Aaron  will  go  on  a  spark  !  " 

And  the  toast  of  the  troopers  is:     "Pickets  lie  low, 

And  good  luck  to  the  colonel  and  Widow  Prevost  !  " 

[1231 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Eight  miles  to  the  river  he  gallops  his  steed, 

Lays  him  bound  in  the  barge,  bids  his  escort  make  speed, 

Loose  their  swords,  sit  athwart,  through  the  fleet  reach  yon  shore 

Not  a  word — not  a  plash  of  the  thick-muffled  oar  ! 

Once  across,  once  again  in  the  seat  and  away— 

Five  leagues  are  soon  over  when  love  has  the  say ; 

And  "Old  Put  "  and  his  rider  a  bridle-path  know 

To  the  Hermitage  manor  of  Madam  Prevost. 

Lightly  done  !  but  he  halts  in  the  road's  deepest  glade, 
Ties  his  horse  to  a  birch;  trims  his  cue,  slings  his  blade, 
Wipes  the  dust  and  the  dew  from  his  smooth,  handsome  face, 
With  the  'kerchief  she  broidered  and  bordered  in  lace; 
Then  slips  through  the  box-row  and  taps  at  the  hall, 
Sees  the  glint  of  a  waxlight,  a  hand  white  and  small, 
And  the  door  is  unbarred  by  herself  all  aglow — 
Half  in  smiles,  half  in  tears — Theodosia  Prevost. 

Alack  for  the  soldier  that's  buried  and  gone  ! 
What's  a  volley  above  him,  a  wreath  on  his  stone, 
Compared  with  sweet  life  and  a  wife  for  one's  view 
Like  this  dame,  ripe  and  warm  in  her  India  fichu  ? 
She  chides  her  bold  lover,  yet  holds  him  more  dear, 
For  the  daring  that  brings  him  a  night-rider  here ; 
British  gallants  by  day  through  her  doors  come  and  go, 
But  a  Yankee's  the  winner  of  Theo  Prevost. 

Where's  the  widow  or  maid  with  a  mouth  to  be  kist, 

When  Burr  comes  a-wooing,  that  long  would  resist  ? 

Lights  and  wine  on  the  beaufet,  the  shutters  all  fast, 

And  "Old  Put"  stamps  in  vain  till  an  hour  has  flown  past — 

But  an  hour,  for  eight  leagues  must  be  covered  ere  day ; 

Laughs  Aaron,  "Let  Washington  frown  as  he  may, 

When  he  hears  of  me  next,  in  raid  on  the  foe, 

He'll  forgive  this  night's  tryst  with  the  widow  Prevost  !  " 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


Col.  Aaron  Burr  was  born  at  Newark,  lived  in  Elizabeth  during 
his  boyhood,  graduated  from  Princeton  college,  and  joined  the  Continen. 
tal  army  before  Boston  in  July,  1775,  being  at  that  time  only  nineteen 
years  of  age.  He  was  made  major  for  his  bravery  at  the  siege  of  Quebec 
and  was  promoted  lieutenant-colonel  in  1777.  He  joined  his  regiment  a^ 
Ramapo,  N.  J.;  and  while  stationed  there  he  met  Theodosia  (De  Visme) 
Provost  and  fell  deeply  in  love  with  her.  She  was  the  charming  and  ac_ 

[124] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


complished  widow  of  a  British  officer,  who  had  recently  died  in  the  West 
Indies  leaving  Mrs.  Provost  with  two  young  sons. 

Col.  Burr  was  for  a  time— ^-January  13  to  March  IS,  1779 — in  com 
mand  of  the  American  troops  in  Westchester  county,  N.  Y.,  having 
under  him  sometimes  a  regiment  and  sometimes  a  brigade,  with  orders 
to  protect  that  region  from  the  foraging  expeditions  made  from  New 
York  city  by  the  British.  He  rendered  effective  service  while  in  command 
there;  and  afterward  he  fought  gallantly  at  Monmouth,  but  was  compelled 
to  resign  from  the  army  on  account  of  ill  health. 

Mrs.  Provost's  residence,  the  Hermitage,  since  known  as  the  Rosen- 
crantz  Mansion,  was  at  Hohokus,  in  Bergen  county.  An  incident  of 
Burr's  courtship  is  related  in  Stedman's  ballad.  Aaron  and  Theodosia 
were  married  at  the  Paramus  church,  July  2,  1782.  Mrs.  Burr  died  in 
1794.  Their  only  child  was  the  brilliant  and  idolized  Theodosia  who 
in  1801  married  Gov.  Joseph  Allston  of  South  Carolina  and  afterward 
perished  in  a  storm  at  sea  off  Cape  Hatteras  while  on  a  voyage  from 
Charleston  to  New  York. 


THE  RAID  ON  RAMAPO. 

From  Boys'  Book  of  Battle  Lyrics,  by  Harper  &  Brothers, 
Copyright,  1885. 

Amid  the  ridges  of  Ramapo 

The  Garrabrant  homestead  stands, 
And  ever  and  ever  it  overlooks 

The  rolling  and  lower  lands. 
Though  peaceful  now,  there  was  turmoil  then, 

And  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
When  Jack  the  Regular's  men  came  there 

A  hundred  years  ago. 

Jan  Garrabrant  owned  the  acres  'round, 

And  Jan  had  a  pair  of  sons 
Who  were  ready    to  wield  the  scythe  or  flail 

Or  handle  at  need  their  guns. 
They  called  them  rebels,  perchance  they  were, 

Who  hated  the  Tories  much; 
And  the  Tory  leader  swore  the  three 

Should  feel  his  royal  clutch. 

Rode  hastily  there  Pete  Huyler's  girl, 

And  to  Betty,  the  wife,  she  said: 
"The  Tories  have  ridden  from  Paulus  Hoeck, 

And  Jack  is  at  their  head ; 
They  are  firing  houses  and  slaying  kine 

In  the  country  far  and  near  ! 
They  swear  they'll  burn  the  Garrabrants  out, 

And  they're  not  three  miles  from  here." 


[125] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Then  she  laid  her  whip  on  her  horse's  flank, 

And  was  off  with  a  leap  and  bound, 
For  her  father  had  sent  the  maiden  out 

To  rouse  the  country  around; 
While  Betty  ran  out  to  where  she'd  see 

Jan  and  her  sons  in  the  corn, 
And  she  blew  a  blast  with  right  good  will 

On  the  battered  dinner  horn. 


Home  in  a  hurry  came  sons  and  sire, 

And  when  the  tidings  they  heard 
Rip  stabled  the  horses,  Dick  herded  the  kine, 

And  neither  one  uttered  a  word. 
Jan  loaded  the  guns — he  had  seven  in  all — 

"We  have  three  for  defense  !  "  said  he. 
"One  more,"  said  Betty;  "you'll  not  forget 

To  count  in  a  fight  on  me." 

They  barred  the  windows  and  bolted  the  doors 

And  waited  the  coming  foe, 
Till  they  heard  the  clatter  of  iron  hoofs 

Afar  in  the  valley  below; 
It  nearer  came,  and  suddenly  stopped, 

And  the  air  around  was  still; 
And  they  knew  Jack's  men  had  tethered  each  horse 

And  were  climbing  on  foot  the  hill. 

Then  up  came  a  scout  to  summon  the  house — 

"We  offer  you  quarter,"  said  he; 
"So  make  no  fight  against  order  and  law; 

The  King's  loyal  subjects  are  we. 
He  offers  through  us  his  mercy  to  show ; 

You'd  better  throw  open  the  door, 
For  we're  twenty-five  and  you  are  but  three." 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Betty;  "we're  four  !  " 

Betty  Garrabrant  levelled  her  firelock  and  drew 

A  bead  on  the  Tory's  head; 
The  bullet  leaped  out  with  whistle  and  whirr 

And  down  dropped  the  partisan  dead. 
Cried  Jack,  when  he  saw  it,  "We'll  have  revenge  ! 

Come,  hurry  there,  some  of  you  men  ! 
Pile  fagots  and  torch  at  the  side  of  the  house; 

We'll  burn  the  she-wolf  in  her  den  !  " 


[126J 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

They  had  better  have  stayed  with  the  rest  of  the  band, 

For  the  three  whom  he  sent  were  slain, 
And  Jack  felt  a  ball  bore  a  hole  in  his  arm — 

Said  Betty:  '"Twas  meant  for  your  brain  !  " 
So  the  Tories  drew  back  behind  outhouse  and  trees, 

And  fired  without  order  or  plan ; 
But  when  those  in  the  house  found  a  foeman  exposed, 

The  bullet  ne'er  failed  of  its  man. 

They  kept  up  the  siege  till  the  hour  of  four, 

But  they  never  the  leagured  stirred; 
Then  suddenly  in  the  distance  far 

A  dull,  low  patter  they  heard. 
'Twas  the  steady  thud  of  galloping  horse, 

With  the  riders  eager  for  fight ; 
And  the  Tories  scattered,  and  backed  their  steeds, 

And  were  off  in  a  headlong  flight. 

But  the  farmers  who  came  from  house  and  field, 

With  firelocks  ready  and  sure, 
They  followed  the  knaves  till  twilight  fell 

O'er  valley  and  hill  and  moor. 
Seven  Tories  were  left  on  the  Garrabrant  farm 

And  seventeen  by  the  way; 
And  Jack  the  Regular  rode  alone 

To  the  Hoeck  from  the  bloody  fray. 

Thomas  Dunn  English. 


JACK  THE  REGULAR. 

Prom  Boys'  Book  of  Battle  Lyrics,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 
Copyright  1885. 

In  the  Bergen  winter  night, 

When  the  hickory  fire  is  roaring, 
Flickering  streams  of  ruddy  light 

On  the  folk  before  it  pouring; 
When  the  apples  pass  around, 

And  the  cider  passes  after, 
And  the  well-worn  jest  is  crowned 

By  the  hearers'  hearty  laughter, 
When  the  cat  is  purring  there, 

And  the  dog  beside  her  dozing, 
And  within  his  easy-chair 

Sits  the  grandsire  old,  reposing; 


[127] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Then  they  tell  the  story  true 

To  the  children  hushed  and  eager, 
How  the  two  Van  Valens  slew 

On  a  time  the  Tory  leaguer, 

Jack  the  Regular. 

Near  a  hundred  years  ago, 

When  the  maddest  of  the  Georges 
Sent  his  troops  to  scatter  woe, 

On  our  hills  and  in  our  gorges, 
Less  we  hated,  less  we  feared 

Those  he  sent  here  to  invade  us 
Than  the  neighbors  with  us  reared 

Who  opposed  us  or  betrayed  us; 
And  amid  those  loyal  knaves 

Who  rejoiced  in  our  disasters, 
As  became  the  willing  slaves 

Of  the  worse  of  royal  masters, 
Stood  John  Berry,  and  he  said 

That  a  regular  commission 
Set  him  at  his  comrades'  head; 

So  we  called  him,  in  derision, 

"Jack  the  Regular.  " 

When  he  heard  it — "Let  them  fling, 

Let  the  traitors  make  them  merry 
With  the  fact  my  gracious  King 

Deigns  to  make  me  Captain  Berry, 
I  will  scourge  them  for  the  sneer, 

For  the  venom  that  they  carry; 
I  will  shake  their  hearts  with  fear, 

As  the  land  around  I  harry ; 
They  shall  find  the  midnight  raid 

Waking  them  from  fitful  slumbers ; 
They  shall  find  the  ball  and  blade 

Daily  thinning  out  their  numbers, 
Barn  in  ashes,  cattle  slain, 

Hearth  on  which  there  glows  no  ember, 
Neatless  plough  and  horseless  wain — 

Thus  the  rebels  shall  remember 

Jack  the  Regular." 

Well  he  kept  his  promise  then, 

With  a  fierce,  relentless  daring, 

Fire  to  roof -trees,  death  to  men, 

Through  the  Bergen  valleys  bearing; 


[128] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


In  the  midnight  deep  and  dark 

Came  his  vengeance  darker,  deeper — 
At  the  watchdog's  sudden  bark 

Woke  in  terror  every  sleeper; 
Till  at  length  the  farmers  brown, 

Wasting  time  no  more  on  tillage, 
Swore  these  ruffians  of  the  crown, 

Fiends  of  murder,  fire  and  pillage, 
Should  be  chased  by  every  path 

To  the  dens  where  they  had  banded, 
And  no  prayers  should  soften  wrath 

When  they  caught  the  bloody-handed 
Jack  the  Regular. 

One  by  one  they  slew  his  men; 

Still  the  chief  their  chase  evaded; 
He  had  vanished  from  their  ken, 

By  the  fiend  or  fortune  aided — 
Either  fled  to  Paulus  Hoek, 

Where  the  Briton  yet  commanded, 
Or  his  stamping  ground  forsook, 

Waiting  till  the  hunt  disbanded. 
So  they  stopped  pursuit  at  length, 

And  returned  to  toil  securely — 
It  was  useless  wasting  strength, 

On  a  purpose  baffled  surely ; 
But  the  two  Van  Valens  swore, 

In  a  patriotic  rapture; 
They  would  never  give  it  o'er 

Till  they'd  either  kill  or  capture 

Jack  the  Regular. 

Long  they  hunted  through  the  wood, 

Long  they  slept  upon  the  hill-side; 
In  the  forest  sought  their  food, 

Drank  when  thirsty  at  the  rill-side ; 
No  exposure  counted  hard — 

Theirs  was  hunting  border-fashion; 
They  grew  bearded  like  the  pard, 

And  their  chase  became  a  passion. 
Even  friends  esteemed  them  mad, 

Said  their  minds  were  out  of  balance, 
Mourned  the  cruel  fate  and  sad, 

Fallen  on  the  poor  Van  Valens. 


1129J 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


But  they  answered  to  it  all, 

"Only  wait  our  loud  view-holloa 
When  the  prey  to  us  shall  fall ; 

For  to  death  we  mean  to  follow 

Jack  the  Regular." 

Hunted  they  from  Tenavlie 

To  the  shore  where  Hudson  presses 
On  the  base  of  traprocks  high, 

Through  Moonachie's  damp  recesses; 
Down  as  far  as  Bergen  Hill, 

By  the  Ramapo  and  Drochy, 
Overproek  and  Pellum  Kill 

—Meadows  flat  and  hilltop  rocky — 
Till  at  last  the  brothers  stood 

Where  the  road  from  North  Barbadoes 
At  the  English  Neighborhood 

Slants  toward  the  Palisadoes; 
Still  to  find  the  prey  they  sought 

Leave  no  sign  for  hunter  eager; 
Followed  steady,  not  yet  caught, 

Was  the  skulking,  fox-like  leaguer, 

Jack    the    Regular. 

Who  are  they  that  yonder  creep 

By  those  bleak  rocks  in  the  distance, 
Like  the  figures  born  in  sleep, 

Called  by  slumber  to  existence? 
Tories,  doubtless,  from  below — 

From  the  Hoek  sent  out  for  spying. 
"  No  !  the  foremost  is  our  foe — 

He  so  long  before  us  flying  ! 
Now  he  spies  us  !     See  him  start  ! 

Wave  his  kerchief  like  a  banner, 
Lay  his  left  hand  on  his  heart 

In  a  proud  insulting  manner. 
Well  he  knows  that  distant  spot 

Past  our  ball — his  low  scorn  flinging — 
If  you  cannot  feel  the  shot, 

You  shall  hear  the  firelock's  ringing, 
Jack  the  Regular." 

Ah  !    he  falls  !    an  ambuscade  ? 

'Twas  impossible  to  strike  him. 
Are  there  Tories  in  the  glade  ? 

Such  a  trick  is  very  like  him. 
[130] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


See,  his  comrade  by  him  kneels, 

Turning  him  in  terror  over, 
Then  takes  nimbly  to  his  heels, 

Have  they  really  slain  the  rover  ? 
It  is  worth  some  risk  to  know; 

So,  with  firelocks  poised  and  ready, 
Up  the  sloping  hill  they  go, 

With  a  quick  lookout  and  steady. 
Dead  !  the  random  shot  had  struck, 

To  the  heart  had  pierced  the  Tory — 
Vengeance,  seconded  by  luck  ! 

Lies  there  cold  and  stiff  and  gory, 

Jack  the  Regular. 

"  Jack,  the  Regular,  is  dead  ! 

Honor  to  the  man  who  slew  him  !  " 
So  the  Bergen  farmers  said 

As  they  crowded  round  to  view  him. 
For  the  wretch  that  lay  there  slain 

Had,  with  wickedness  unbending, 
To  their  roofs  brought  fiery  rain, 

To  their  kinsfolk  woeful  ending. 
Not  a  mother  but  had  prest, 

In  a  sudden  pang  of  fearing, 
Sobbing  darlings  to  her  breast 

When  his  name  had  smote  her  hearing; 
Not  a  wife  that  did  not  feel 

Terror  when  the  words  were  uttered, 
Not  a  man  but  chilled  to  steel 

When  the  hated  sounds  he  muttered — 
"  Jack  the  Regular  " 

Bloody  in  his  work  was  he, 

In  his  purpose  iron-hearted; 
Gentle  pity  could  not  be 

When  the  pitiless  had  parted; 
So  the  corpse  in  wagon  thrown 

With  no  decent  cover  o'er  it — 
Jeers  its  funeral  rites  alone — 

Into  Hackensack  they  bore  it, 
'Mid  the  clanging  of  the  bells 

In  the  old  Dutch  church's  steeple, 
And  the  hooting  and  the  yells 

Of  the  gladdened,  maddened  people. 


[131] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Some  they  rode  and  some  they  ran 
By  the  wagon  where  it  rumbled, 

Scoffing  at  the  lifeless  man, 

All  elate  that  Death  had  humbled 

Jack  the  Regular. 

Thus  within  the  winter  night, 

When  the  hickory  fire  is  roaring, 
Flickering  streams  of  ruddy  light 

On  the  folk  before  it  pouring; 
When  the  apples  pass  around, 

And  the  cider  follows  after, 
And  the  well-worn  jest  is  crowned 

By  the  hearer's  hearty  laughter; 
When  the  cat  is  purring  there, 

And  the  dog  beside  her  dozing, 
And  within  his  easy  chair 

Sits  the  grandsire  old,  reposing; 
Then  they  tell  the  story  true 

To  the  children  hushed  and  eager, 
How  the  bold  Van  Valen  slew 

On  a  time  the  Tory  leaguer, 

Jack  the   Regular. 

Thomas  Dunn  English. 


John  Berry,  the  notorious  loyalist  who  so  long  terrorized  the'in- 
habitants  of  Bergen  county  by  his  cruel  outrages,  repudiated  with  indig 
nation  the  accusation  that  he  was  a  common  marauder;  he  claimed  to  be 
a  regularly-commissioned  captain  in  the  British  service.  His  followers 
were  hunted  down  and  scattered,  but  Berry  himself  lurked  abouthintil  he 
was  killed  near  Ridgefield  station  by  a  long  shot  fired|*in  mere 
vexation  by  one  of  the  Van  Valen  brothers  who  was  astonished  when  the 
partisan  fell.  

THE  FALLS  OF  THE  PASSAIC. 

In  a  wild,  tranquil  vale,  fringed  with  forests  of  green, 
Where  nature  had  fashioned  a  soft  sylvan  scene, 
The  retreat  of  the  ring-dove,  the  haunt  of  the  deer, 
Passaic  in  silence  rolled  gentle  and  clear. 

No  grandeur  of  prospect  astonished  the  sight, 
No  abruptness  sublime  mingled  awe  with  delight ; 
Here  the  wild  floweret  blossomed,  the  elm  proudly  waved, 
And  pure  was  the  current  the  green  bank  that  laved. 

[132] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


But  the  spirit  that  ruled  o'er  the  thick  tangled  wood, 
And  deep  in  its  gloom  fixed  his  murky  abode, 
Who  loved  the  wild  scene  that  the  whirlwinds  deform, 
And  gloried  in  thunder  and  lightning  and  storm ; 

All  flushed  from  the  tumult  of  battle  he  came, 
Where  the  red  men  encountered  the  children  of  flame, 
While  the  noise  of  the  warwhoop  still  rang  in  his  ears, 
And  the  fresh  bleeding  scalp  as  a  trophy  he  bears: 

With  a  glance  of  disgust,  he  the  landscape  surveyed, 
With  its  fragrant  wild  flowers,  its  wild  waving  shade, 
Where  Passaic  meanders  through  margins  of  green, 
So  transparent  its  waters,  its  surface  serene. 

He  rived  the  green  hills,  the  wild  woods  he  laid  low ; 
He  taught  the  pure  stream  in  rough  channels  to  flow; 
He  rent  the  rude  rock,  the  steep  precipice  gave, 
And  hurled  down  the  chasm  the  thundering  wave. 

Countless  moons  have  since  rolled  in  the  long  lapse  of  time, 
Cultivation  has  softened  those  features  sublime; 
The  axe  of  the  white  man  has  lightened  the  shade, 
And  dispelled  the  deep  gloom  of  the  thicketed  glade. 

But  the  stranger  still  gazes  with  wondering  eye, 

On  the  rocks  rudely  torn,  and  groves  mounted  on  high; 

Still  loves  on  the  cliff's  dizzy  borders  to  roam, 

Where  the  torrent  leaps  headlong,  embosomed  in  foam. 

Washington  Irving. 


ROCK  OF  THE  PASSAIC  FALLS. 

Yrom'Minto  and  Other  Poems,  by  permission  of  Caroline  Crane  Lyon; 

copyrighted. 

Rock  where  the  many  come 
Viewing  thy  water's  foam, 

On  thee  I  stand: 
Tis  of  thy  chasmed  walls, 
Where  its  mad  torrent  falls 

Spurning  command, 
That  thy  Passaic 's  name 
Claims  an  undying  fame 

In  every  land. 

[133] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Rock  of  the  misty  cloud, 
Where  the  bald  eagle  proud, 

Leaving  his  prey 
Free  in  his  forest-home, 
Came  and  mid  dashing  foam 

Bathed  in  the  spray, 
Pluming  his  pinions  light 
Ere  on  his  upward  flight 

Soaring  away. 

Rock  of  wild  resonance, 
Where  the  red  hunter  once 

Fearlessly  stood, 
Listeningly  wondering 
Whilst  the  loud  thundering 

Roar  of  thy  flood 
Rolled  through  the  firmament, 
Strangely   reverberant 

From  hill  and  wood. 

Broad  from  thy  dizzy  height 
Roll  all  thy  waters  bright, 

Solemn   as   death, 
As  if  all  motionless 
Over  the  dark  abyss 

Gathering  their  breath, 
Ere,  on  the  awful  bound, 
Down,  down  the  dread  profound 

Plunging  beneath. 

Raging  and  struggling 
Far  on  the  rocks  they  fling 

Madly  their  spray: 
Billow  its  billow  meets, 
Shrouded  in  misty  sheets 

Scorning  delay, 
Whirling  and  eddying, 
Many  a  foamy  ring 

Floating  away. 


Spanning  thine  awful  brow 
Brighter  and  fainter  now. 
Changeful  in  glow, 


[134] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Circled  in  halos  bright 
Image  of  holy  light, 

Beams  heaven's  bow 
Calmly,  sublimely  throned, 
Whilst  the  deep  ocean-toned 

Storm  raves  below. 

Wide  from  thy  chasm  deep 
Boiling  the  waters  sweep, 

Fitful  and  slow; 
Foamy  yet  rippleless, 
Bound  to  the  far  abyss 

Onward  they  flow 
Claiming  paternity 
Now  with  the  briny  sea 

Whither  they  go. 

Rock  where  the  warriors  stood, 
Long  may  Passaic's  flood 

Over  thee  pour; 
Deep  as  the  ocean's  moan, 
Ceaseless  its  solemn  tone 

Resonant  roar, 
Till  the  last  trumpet's  blast 
Bid  thy  wild  chasms  cast 

Echoes  no  more. 

Oliver  Cram. 


A  few  miles  above  the  city  of  Paterson,  the  waters  of  the  Passaic 
river  make  a  perpendicular  drop  of  fifty  feet  down  a  chasm  sixty  feet 
wide.  It  is  said  that  Washington  and  Lafayette  visited  these  Falls  in 
1780  while  their  troops  were  stationed  at  Totowa,  as  the  place  was  then 
called. 

Marquis  de  Chastellux,  a  Major-General  in  the  French  army  under 
Count  de  Rochambeau,  visited  the  Falls  on  November  23,  1780,  while 
on  his  way  to  visit  General  Washington,  then  quartered  in  Colonel  Dey's 
house  at  Preakness. 


EAGLE  ROCK. 

From  Eagle  Rock  a  country  rich  and  fair 

Spreads  eastward  till  it  verges  on  the  sea; 

A  world  in  less,  a  nation's  thoroughfare, 
By  nature  hoarded  for  a  people  free. 

Below  the  crag,  in  rippling  seas  of  green, 

Wave  noble  trees  where  goodly  mansions  stand; 


[135J 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


A  gable  here,  and  there  a  flagpole  seen, 

Reveal  the  homes  and  spirit  of  the  land. 

Yon  schoolhouse  on  the  lawny  hill  uprear'd, 

Each  window  flashing  back  the  west'ring  sun, 

That  lofty  spire,  to  Christian  hearts  endear'd, 
Proclaim  our  faith  and  erudition  one. 

Tall  stacks  from  mills  in  little  valleys  rise, 

And  sear  with  lazy  smoke  the  atmosphere; 

While  east  and  west  the  locomotive  flies, 
A-puffing  snowy  incense  everywhere. 

There  labor  thrives,  and  happy  homes  are  made, 
Where  men  and  women  safely  dwell  in  peace; 

No  tyrant  crushes,  no  man  makes  afraid, 

Nor  ever  shall — until  sweet  freedom  cease. 

New  Jersey's  fairest  towns  lie  on  the  plain, 

And  Newark,  big  with  wealth  and  destiny, 

Sends  forth  her  products  on  the  rumbling  train, 
Or  vessels  creeping  softly  to  the  sea. 

Far  off  a  castellated  city  stands: 

Manhattan,  risen  like  a  storied  dream, 

She  takes  the  tribute  of  a  thousand  lands, 

Within  her  veins  a  million  sov 'reigns  teem. 

What  sparkling  harbors,  wide  and  deep,  we  see, 
And  rivers  bearing  treasure  on  their  tides; 

And  look!  As  through  the  gates  of  liberty, 

An  ocean  greyhound  up  the  Narrows  glides. 

Ah!     There  are  they,  great  cities,  commerce,  men — 

A  panorama  never  seen  before, 
A  promised  land,  like  Canaan  might  have  been, 

Its  bounties  pour'd  profusely  at  our  door. 

From  Eagle  Rock  a  country  rich  and  fair 

Spreads  eastward  till  it  verges  on  the  sea, 

O  rather  let  us  keep  a  fireside  there 

Than  reign  with  kings  in  fabled  luxury. 

Joseph  Fulford  Folsom. 


Eagle  Rock  is  a  high  crag  of  trap  on  the  eastern  edge  of  the  Orange 
Mountains,  commanding  a  magnificent  panorama.     It  is  between  Llewel 
lyn  Park  and  Montclair,  and  is  included  in  the  domain  of  the  Eseex 
county  park  system. 

[136] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

A  VISIT  TO  WASHINGTON'S  HEADQUARTERS. 

Morristown,    N.    J. 

Come  hither,  little  grandson  mine,  and  sit  upon  my  knee; 
I'll  tell  thee  a  tale  of  olden  days,  a  tale  of  chivalry. 
I'll  tell  thee  of  the  noble  men — one  nobler  than  they  all — 
Who  dwelt  beneath  this  old  rooftree  and  walked  this  very  hall. 

Look  well  about  you,  boy,  look  well,  for  'tis  not  every  day 
In  these  fast  times  they  chance  to  let  a  house  like  this  one  stay ; 
I  heard  that  some  would  pull  it  down,  but  men  were  found  at  last 
To  keep  the  old  house  standing  as  a  memory  of  the  past. 

Beneath  this  grand  old  rooftree,  boy,  your  country's  father  came 
To  fight  the  fight  which  gave  to  you  a  country  and  a  name ; 
And  to  him  gathered  all  the  brave,  a  small  but  gallant  band, 
Who  dared  to  ask  that  Liberty  should  reign  throughout  the  land. 

Here  when  the  days  were  darkest  and  the  struggle  seemed  in  vain, 
The  patriot  chieftain  fought  the  fight  and  won  immortal  fame. 
Not  thirty  miles  across,  the  Reds  were  camped  in  great  array 
While  here  was  but  a  feeble  band  to  block  their  bloody  way. 

Look  off  on  yonder  hillside,  boy,  'tis  scarce  a  mile  away, 
'Tis  there  the  patriot  army  through  the  bitter  winter  lay ; 
A  trifling  walk  it  seems  to-day  but  then  on  snow  and  sleet 
The  path  was  marked  with  blood-stains  from  sentries'  shoeless 
feet. 

In  hunger  oft,  in  sickness  sore,  with  garments  thin  and  few, 
Both  men  and  chieftain  fared  alike  that  bitter  winter  through; 
And  many  a  noble  patriot  died  as  yon  church-yard  can  tell, 
And  also  many  a  field  and  wood — just  buried  where  they  fell. 

But  think,  my  boy,  how  oft  "the  man"  has  paced  this  ample  hall, 
And  mused  on  danger,  famine,  plague,  God  knows  he  met  them 

all; 
The  long,  long  nights  when  others  slept,  he  walked  this  very 

floor, — 
It  seems  to  echo  back  his  tread  as  oft  it  did  of  yore. 

The  very  walls  seem  whispering  in  murmurs  soft  and  low, 
And  strive  to  tell  their  story  of  a  hundred  years  ago; 
The  stout  old  rafters  gently  creak  as  if  they  fain  would  say, 
"We  sheltered  glorious  Washington;  beneath  our  arms  he  lay." 

[1371 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


May  vandal's  ax  be  never  raised  against  the  old  rooftree, 
May  tender  hands  keep  upright  still  this  refuge  of  the  free; 
And  when  the  time  comes  round,  my  boy,  the  tale  your  sons  to 

tell, 
God  grant,  old  house,  you  still  may  stand,  and  till  then  fare  you 

well. 

D.  A.  W. 


AN  OLD  MIRROR. 

Used  by  Washington  at  his  Headquarters  in  Morristown. 

Old  Mirror  !    speak  and  tell  us  whence 

Thou  comest,  and  then,  who  brought  thee  thence. 

Did  dear  old  England  give  thee  birth  ? 

Or  merry  France,  the  land  of  mirth  ? 

In  vain  another  should  we  seek 

At  all  like  thee — thou  thing  antique. 

Of  this  old  mansion  thou  seemest  part, 

Indeed,  to  me,  its  very  heart; 

For  in  thy  face  though  dimmed  with  age, 

I  read  my  country's  brightest  page. 

Five  generations  all  have  passed, 
And  yet,  Old  Mirror,  thou  dost  last; 
The  young,  the  old,  the  good,  the  bad, 
The  gay,  the  gifted,  and  the  sad 
Are  gone;  their  hopes,  their  sighs,  their  fears 
Are  buried  deep  with  smiles  and  tears: 
Then  speak,  Old  Mirror  !    thou  hast  seen 
Full  many  a  noble  form,  I  ween, 
Full  many  a  soldier,  tall  and  brave, 
Now  lying  in  a  nameless  grave ; 
Full  many  a  fairy  form  and  bright 
That  flitted  by  when  hearts  were  light; 
Full  many  a  bride  whose  short  life  seemed 
Too  happy  to  be  even  dreamed ; 
Full  many  a  lord  and  titled  dame 
Bearing  full  many  an  honored  name ; 
And  tell  us,  Mirror,  how  they  dressed — 
Those  stately  dames — when  in  their  best, 
If  robes  and  sacques  the  damsels  wore 
And  sweeping  skirts  in  days  of  yore. 

[138] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


But  tell  us,  too,  for  we  must  hear 
Of  him  whom  all  the  world  revere. 
Thou  sawest  him  when  the  times  so  dark 
Had  made  upon  his  brow  their  mark, — 
Those  fearful  times,  those  dreary  days, 
When  all  seemed  but  a  tangled  maze ; 
His  noble  army,  worn  with  toils, 
Giving  their  life-blood  to  the  soils, 
Disease  and  famine  brooding  o'er, 
His  country's  foe  e'en  at  his  door: 
But  ever  sawest  him  noble,  brave, 
Seeking  her  freedom,  or  his  grave. 
His  was  the  heart  that  never  quailed;. 
His  was  the  arm  that  never  failed  ! 

Old  Mirror  !    thou  hast  seen  what  we 
Would  barter  all  most  dear  to  see  : 
The  great,  the  good,  the  noblest  one,. 
Our  own  immortal  Washington  ! 

Well  may  we  gaze — for  now  in  thee 
Relics  of  the  great  past  we  see. 
Well  may  we  gaze — for  ne'er  again, 
Old  Mirror,  shall  we  see  such  men; 
And,  when  we  too  have  lived  our  day 
Like  those  before  us  passed  away, 
Still,  valued  Mirror,  mayest  thou  last 
To  tell  our  children  of  the  past; 
Still  thy  dimmed  face,  thy  tarnished  frame 
Thy  honored  house  and  time  proclaim; 
And  ne'er  may  sacriligious  hand, 
While  freedom  claims  this  as  her  land, 
One  stone  or  pebble  rashly  throw 
To  lay  thee,  honored  Mirror,  low. 


THE  WASHINGTON  HEADQUARTERS. 

Morristown. 

From  Ballads  of  New  Jersey  in  the  Revolution',  by  permission 
Charles  D.   Platt;  copyright,    1896. 

What  mean  these  cannon  standing  here, 
These  staring,  muzzled  dogs  of  war  ? 

Heedless  and  mute,  they  cause  no  fear, 
Like  lions  caged,  forbid  to  roar. 


[139| 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


This  gun  was  made  when  good  Queen  Anne 
Ruled  upon  Merry  England's  throne; 

Captured  by  valiant  Jerseymen 

Ere  George  the  Third  our  rights  would  own. 

Old  Nat,  the  little  cur  on  wheels, 

Protector  of  our  sister  city, 
Was  kept  to  bite  the  British  heels, 

A  yelping  terror,  bold  and  gritty. 

That  savage  beast,  the  Old  Crown  Prince, 
A  British  bull-dog,  glum,  thick-set, 

At  Springfield's  fight  was  made  to  wince 
And  now  we  keep  him  for  a  pet. 

Upon  this  grassy  knoll  they  stand, 

A  venerable,  peaceful  pack; 
Their  throats  once  tuned  to  music  grand, 

And  stained  with  gore  their  muzzles  black. 

But  come,  that  portal  swinging  free 

A  welcome  offers  as  of  yore, 
When,  sheltered  'neath  this  old  roof-tree, 

Our  patriot  chieftain  trod  this  floor. 

And  with  him  in  that  trying  day 

Was  gathered  here  a  glorious  band; 

This  house  received  more  chiefs,  they  say, 
Than  any  other  in  our  land. 

Hither  magnanimous  Schuyler  came, 

And  Steuben  stern  from  o'er  the  water; 

Here  Hamilton,  of  brilliant  fame, 

Once  met  and  courted  Schuyler's  daughter. 

And  Knox,  who  leads  the  gunner-tribes, 

Whose  shot  the  trembling  foeman  riddles,- 

A  roaring  chief,  his  cash  subscribes 

To  pay  the  mirth-inspiring  fiddles. 


The  fighting  Quaker,  General  Greene, 

Helped  Knox  to  foot  the  fiddler's  bill ; 


[140] 


WASHINGTON'S  HEADQUARTERS  AT  MORRISTOWN 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


And  here  the  intrepid  "Put"  was  seen; 
And  Arnold, — black  his  memory  still. 

And  Kosciusko,  scorning  fear; 

Beside  him  noble  Lafayette; 
And  gallant  "Light-horse  Harry"  here 

His  kindly  chief  for  counsel  met. 

"Mad  Anthony"  was  here  a  guest; 

Madly  he  charged,  but  shrewdly  planned ; 
And  many  another  in  whose  breast 

Was  faithful  counsel  for  our  land. 

Among  those  worthies  was  a  dame 

Of  mingled  dignity  and  grace; 
Linked  with  warrior-statesman's  fame 

Is  Martha's  comely,  smiling  face. 

But  look  around,  to  right,  to  left; 

Pass  through  these  rooms,  once  Martha's  pride; 
The  dining-hall  of  guests  bereft, 

The  kitchen  with  its  fire-place  wide. 

See  the  huge  logs,  the  swinging  crane, 

The  Old  Man's  seat  by  chimney  ingle; 

The  pots  and  kettles,  all  the  train 

Of  brass  and  pewter,  here  they  mingle. 

In  the  large  hall  above,  behold 

The  flags,  the  eagle  poised  for  flight; 

While  sabres,  bayonets,  flint-locks  old 
Tell  of  the  struggle  and  the  fight. 

Old  faded  letters  bear  the  seal 

Of  men  who  battled  for  a  stamp ; 
A  cradle  and  a  spinning-wheel 

Bespeak  the  home  behind  the  camp. 

Apartments  opening  from  the  hall 

Show  chairs  and  desks  of  quaint  old  style; 

And  curious  pictures  on  the  wall 
Provoke  a  reverential  smile. 

Musing,  we  loiter  in  each  room 

And  linger  with  our  vanished  sires; 
We  hear  the  deep,  far-echoing  boom 

That  spoke  of  old  in  flashing  fires. 

[141] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


But  deepening  shadows  bid  us  go, 
The  western  sun  is  sinking  fast; 

We  take  our  leave  with  foot-steps  slow, — 
Farewell,  ye  treasures  of  the  past  ! 

A  century  has  come  and  gone 

Since  these  old  relics  saw  their  day ; 
That  day  was  but  the  opening  dawn 

Of  one  that  has  not  passed  away. 

Our  banner  is  no  worthless  rag, 

With  patriot  pride  hearts  still  beat  high ; 
And  there,  above,  still  waves  the  flag 

For  which  our  fathers  dared  to  die. 


Charles  D.  Platt. 


WASHINGTON'S  HEADQUARTERS. 

Morristown,  New  Jersey. 

These  halls,  so  venerable  grown, 

Once  noble  heroes  trod, — 
Their  forms  have  vanished  into  dust, 

Their  spirits  rest  with  God. 

On  this  fair  mount  where  Peace  now  reigns, 
Throned  on  these  verdant  slopes. 

In  days  of  old,  in  dire  distress, 
Hung  all  our  fathers'  hopes. 

This  ground  once  trembled  with  the  tread 

Of  patriots  marching  by, 
For  freedom's  cause  they  suffered  loss, 

For  freedom  dared  to  die. 

These  cannon  that  with  thunder  shook 

The  pulses  of  the  land, 
Now  keeping  watch,  grim  sentinels, 

In  silence  waiting  stand. 

Here  dwelt  fair  Freedom's  peerless  son, 

Great  leader  of  the  free, 
The  father  of  our  native  land, 

Hero  of  liberty. 


1142] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


At  rest  his  valiant  armies  lie, 

At  rest,  with  glory  crowned; 
All  Freedom's  hosts  now  follow  him, 

His  fame  their  praises  sound. 

Ye  pilgrims  to  this  sacred  shrine 
Who  come  from  far  and  near, 

Behold  these  relics  of  the  past 
That  we  have  gathered  here. 

These  blood-stained  arms,  these  faded  flags, 
These  drums  that  throb  no  more. 

That  did  brave  service  for  the  right 
In  many  a  conflict  sore; 


These  writings  worn  and  dim  with  age, 

That  tell  of  liberty- 
Wrecked  fragments  cast  upon  the  shore 

Of  time's  tempestuous  sea  ! 

Think  you  that  Freedom  too  is  dead 
Like  her  mementos  here  ? 

Then  let  each  freeman  blush  with  shame 
And  for  his  country  fear. 


Before  the  lightning  of  her  wrath 
Her  flying  foes  still  yield; 

Still  the  oppressed  a  refuge  find 
Beneath  her  mighty  shield. 


Immortal  Freedom  is  not  dead; 

She  liveth  as  of  old; 
And  a  curse  still  waits  to  blight  his  name 

Who  sells  our  rights  for  gold. 


Forget  not  those  who  bled  for  us, 

But  true  to  freedom  stand; 
Remember  God  is  Freedom's  God 

And  this  is  Freedom's  land. 

Henry  Nehemiah  Dodge. 


[143] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 

A  CALL  ON  LADY  WASHINGTON. 

January,    1780. 

From  Ballads  of  New  Jersey  in  the  Revolution,  by  permission  of 
Charles   D.    Platt;  copyright,    1896. 

"  O  Lady  Martha  Washington 

Has  come  to  Morristown, 
And  we  must  go  and  quickly  so, 

Each  in  her  finest  gown, 
And  call  at  Colonel  Ford's  to  see 

That  dame  of  high  renown." 

So  spake  the  dames  of  Hanover 

And  put  on  their  array 
Of  silks  to  wit,  and  all  that's  fit 

To  grace  a  gala  day, 
And  called  on  Lady  Washington 

In  raiment  bright  and  gay. 

Those  were  the  days  of  scarcity 

In  all  our  stricken  land, 
When  hardships  tried  the  country-side; 

Want  was  on  every  hand, 
When  they  called  on  Lady  Washington 

In  fine  attire  so  grand. 

"And  don't  you  think  !    we  found  her  with 
A  speckled  homespun  apron  on; 

With  knitting  in  hand — that  lady  so  grand — • 
That  stately  Lady  Washington  ! 

When  we  came  to  Morristown  that  day 
With  all  our  finest  fixin's  on  ! 

She  welcomed  us  right  graciously 

And  then,  quite  at  her  ease, 
She  makes  the  glancing  needles  fly 

As  nimbly  as  you  please; 
And  so  we  found  that  courtly  dame 

As  busy  as  two  bees." 

"  For  while  our  gallant  soldiers  bear 
The  brunt  of  war,"  quoth  she, 

"  It  is  not  right  that  we  delight 
In  costly  finery." 

[144] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


So  spake  good  Martha  Washington, 
Still  smiling  graciously. 

"  But  let  us  do  our  part,"  quoth  she, 

"And  speedily  begin 
To  clothe  our  armies  on  the  field 

And  independence  win  " — 
"  Good-bye  !    Good-bye  !  "  we  all  did  cry — 

"  We're  going  home  to  spin  !  " 

Charles  D.   Platt. 


FORT  NONSENSE. 

1779-1780. 

From  Ballads  of  New  Jersey  in  the  Revolution,  by  permission  of 
Charles   D.    Platt;  copyright,    1896. 

Digging  on  the  hill, 
Digging  with  a  will, 

Why  ? 

Orders  have  gone  out, 
"  Build  a  new  redoubt, 

High, 

On  yon  snowy  crown, 
Rising  o'er  the  town, 

'Gainst  the  sky." 

Though  winter  snows  are  deep, 
Though  stinging  blizzards  sweep 
O'er  the  hills — though  we  weep, 

In  dismay; 

Though  hunger,  like  a  knife, 
Cuts  out  our  very  life, 
Though  mutiny  is  rife, 

We  obey. 

Our  leader  finds  a  way, 
To  keep  dull  care  at  bay — 

Hurrah  ! 

He  builds  a  solid  earth-work, 
A  battlement    of  mirth-work, 

Ha-ha  ! 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Hurrah  !    the  fort  is  done  ! 
Bring  up  the  opening  gun — 

Fire  ! 

We  have  a  strong  defense, 
Though  hardships  gather  dense, 

And  dire. 

Cheering  on  the  hill, 
Cheering  with  a  will — 

Why  ? 

We've  carried  orders  out, 
We've  built  a  new  redoubt, 

High 

On  this  stony  crown, 
Rising  o'er  the  town, 

Towards  the  sky. 

1890. 

A  rough,  unpolished  stone, 
Now  shows    where  Washington, 
A  bloodless  battle  won — 

Grim  the  foe; 
No  fires  of  war  here  flamed 
To  make  this  old  fort  famed — 
"  Fort  Nonsense  "  it  was  named, 

Years  ago. 

Shrine  of  a  lowly  grace, 
That  did  fierce  foemen  face, 

Nor  fly; 

Raised  on  a  noble  base, 
It  lifts  its  rugged  face, 

On  high; 

For  nonsense  has  a  place, 
As  near  as  many  a  grace, 

To  the  sky. 

Charles   D.    Plait. 


Fort  Nonsense  was  the  name  given  to  an  unfinished  earthwork 
erected  by  the  Continental  army  during  the  winter  of  1779-1780,  on  the 
hills  overlooking  Morristown. 

It  is  an  oral  tradition  that  Washington  had  this  work  done  as  a 
ruse  to  maintain  hope,  health  and  discipline  among  the  suffering  and 

[146] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


disheartened  troops  who  believed  they  were  constructing  a  fortification 
for  defense  against  the  approaching  British. 

As  to  the  origin  of  Fort  Nonsense,  Andrew  M.  Sherman,  in  his 
Historic  Morristown,  favors  the  theory  that  these  earthworks  were  con 
structed  by  the  State  militia  in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1778  for  de 
fense  against  anticipated  attacks  by  the  British,  and  that  the  fort  was 
afterward  utilized  by  Washington  as  a  picket-post  and  signal  station. 


ANNA  KITCHEL'S  PROTECTION. 

Whippany,  1776-77. 

From  Ballads  of  New  Jersey  in  the  Revolution ;  by  permission  of 
Charles  D.  Platt;  copyright,  1906. 

"  Get  a  protection,  Anna,"  quoth  he, 

'  'Twill  keep  you  safe  from  harm;  " 
The  Deacon  he  was  a  godly  man, 
But  filled  with  dire  alarm. 

"A  British  protection  is  the  thing, 

The  very  thing,"  quoth  he; 
"  For  this  alone  can  save  your  life 

And  all  your  property." 

Unto  the  worthy  Deacon  then 

Thus  Anna  Kitchel  spake, 
' '  Protection  from  King  George  the  Third 

I  will  not  falsely  take. 

Is  not  my  husband  in  the  ranks  ? 

My  heart  with  him  must  go ; 
I  give  no  oath  of  fealty 

To  the  man  he  counts  his  foe. 

My  father,  too,  in  the  army  serves, 

Has  served  for  many  a  day ; 
And  brothers  five,  if  they're  alive, 

Are  mingling  in  the  fray. 

So  now  I  pray  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

My  best  Protector,  He; 
I'll  bear  my  share  and  He  will  care 

For  me  and  mine,"  quoth  she. 

Charles  D.  Platt. 

[147] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


When  a  British  commander  advanced  into  unfriendly  territory 
which  he  hoped  to  occupy  permanently,  he  sometimes  issued  a  procla 
mation  inviting  the  inhabitants  to  appear  at  headquarters  and  subscribe 
an  oath  of  fidelity  to  the  English  government,  offering  to  those  who  did 
so  a  full  pardon  for  all  previous  acts  of  hostility  and  promising  protection 
against  future  injury  at  the  hands  of  his  soldiers. 

.  Here  is  one  of  these  protection  papers  so-called;  it  is  an  exact  copy 
of  the  original  except  that  the  fictitious  John  Doe  has  been  substituted 
for  the  name  of  the  actual  applicant  for  pardon: 

"It  is  his  Excellency  Lt.  Generall  Earl  Cornwallace,  his 
Orders  that  no  Person  Presume  to  injure  or  molest  the  Per- 
on  or  Propperty  of  John  Doe  on  any  account. 
By  his  Excellency's  Orders  at  head  Quaters 
J:  Tinker,  Aide  de  Camp." 

"I  certifie  that  John  Doe  this  Day  took  the  oath  of  Fidel- 
ty  before  me  at  head  Quarters. 
Decemr.     12,     1776.  Cortd    Skinner." 

Anna  Kitchel  was  the  daughter  of  Daniel  and  Jemima  (Johnson) 
Tuttle.  She  was  born  February  23,  1750,  and  died  April  6,  1815.  She 
married  Uzal  Kitchel  on  March  29,  1768;  they  lived  at  Whippany,  Morris 
county,  N.  J. 

Her  father  and  her  husband  both  served  in  the  American  army; 
as  did  also  her  four  brothers,  Timothy,  John,  Joseph  who  died  at  Valley 
Forge  in  April,  1778,  and  William  who  enlisted  at  the  age  of  sixteen  and 
fought  throughout  the  whole  war. 

When  Anna  Kitchel  was  urged  to  acknowledge  the  sovereignty 
of  King  George  and  thus  secure  a  protection  paper,  she  replied,  "If  the 
the  God  of  battles  will  not  protect  us,  we  will  fare  with  the  rest."  This 
illustrates  the  dauntless  spirit  of  the  women  of  New  Jersey  even  amid  the 
dangers  to  which  they  were  exposed  by  reason  of  the  absence  of  their 
fathers  and  brothers,  their  husbands  and  sons,  who  were  serving  in  camp 
and  field  under  Washington. 


RHODA  FARRAND. 

In  the  last  of  these  Centennial  days, 

Let  me  sing  a  song  to  a  woman's  praise; 

How  she  proved  herself  in  that  time  of  strife 

Worthy  of  being  a  patriot's  wife. 

A  little  woman  she  was — not  young, 

But  ready  of  wit  and  quiet  of  tongue ; 

One  of  the  kind  of  which  Solomon  told, 

Setting  their  price  above  rubies  and  gold. 

A  memory  brave  clings  around  her  name, 

'Twas  Rhoda  Farrand,  and  worthy  of  fame, 

Though  scarce  she  dreamed  'twould  be  woven  in  rhymes 

In  these  her  grand-daughter's  daughter's  times. 

[148] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

Just  out  of  the  clamor  of  war's  alarms 

Lay  in  tranquil  quiet  the  Jersey  farms 

And  all  the  produce  in  barn  and  shed 

By  the  boys  and  girls  was  harvested. 

For  the  winds  of  winter,  with  storm  and  chill, 

Swept  bitterly  over  each  field  and  hill. 

Her  husband  was  with  the  army,  and  she 

Was  left  on  the  farm  at  Parsippany. 

When  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet 

And  Marshall  Doty  rode  up  the  street; 

He  paused  but  a  moment,  and  then  handed  down 

A  letter  for  Rhoda,  from  Morristown, 

In  her  husband's  hand — how  she  seized  the  sheet  ! 


The  children  came  running  with  eager  feet, — 

There  were  Nate  and  Betty,  Hannah  and  Dan, — 

To  list  to  the  letter;  and  thus  it  ran, 

After  best  greeting  to  children  and  wife: 

"  Heart  of  my  heart,  and  life  of  my  life," 

(I  read  from  the  paper  wrinkled  and  brown,) 

"  We  are  here  for  the  winter,  in  Morristown, 

And  a  sorry  sight  are  our  men  to-day 

In  tatters  and  rags  with  no  signs  of  pay. 

As  we  marched  to  camp,  if  a  man  looked  back, 

By  the  dropping  blood  he  could  trace  our  track; 

For  scarcely  a  man  has  a  decent  shoe, 

And  there's  not  a  stocking  the  army  through  ; 

So  send  us  stockings  as  quick  as  you  can, 

My  company  needs  them,  every  man, 

And  every  man  is  a  neighbor's  lad  ; 

Tell  this  to  their  mothers,  they  need  them  bad." 


Then,  if  never  before,  beat  Rhoda's  heart, 
'Twas  time  to  be  doing  a  woman's  part. 
She  turned  to  her  daughters,  Hannah  and  Bet  : 
"  Girls,  each  on  your  needles  a  stocking  set  ; 
Get  my  cloak  and  hood  ;  as  for  you,  son  Dan, 
Yoke  up  the  steers  as  quick  as  you  can  ; 
Put  a  chair  in  the  wagon,  as  you're  alive  ; 
I  will  sit  and  knit,  while  you  go  and  drive." 
They  started  at  once  on  Whippany  road, 
She  knitting  away  while  he  held  the  goad. 


[149] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


At  Whippany  village  she  stopped  to  call 
On  the  sisters  Prudence  and  Mary  Ball. 
She  would  not  go  in  ;  she  sat  in  her  chair 
And  read  to  the  girls  her  letter  from  there. 
That  was  enough,  for  their  brothers  three 
Were  in  Lieutenant  Farrand's  company. 

Then  on  Rhoda  went,  stopping  here  and  there 

To  rouse  the  neighbors  from  her  old  chair. 

Still  while  she  was  riding  her  needles  flew, 

And  minute  by  minute  the  stocking  grew. 

Across  the  country  so  withered  and  brown, 

They  drove  till  they  came  to  Hanover  town. 

There,  mellow  and  rich,  lay  the  Smith's  broad  lands  ; 

With  them  she  took  dinner  and  warmed  her  hands. 

Next  toward  Hanover- Neck  Dan  turned  the  steers, 

Where  her  cousins,  the  Kitchels,  had  lived  for  years. 

With  the  Kitchels  she  supped,  then  homeward  turned, 

While  above  her  the  stars  like  lanterns  burned  ; 

And  she  stepped  from  her  chair,  helped  by  her  son, 

With  her  first  day's  work  and  her  stockings  done. 

On  Rockaway  river  so  bright  and  clear, 

The  brown  leaf  skims  in  the  Fall  of  the  year  ; 

Around  through  the  hills  it  curves  like  an  arm, 

And  holds  in  its  clasp  more  than  one  bright  farm 

Through  Rockaway  valley  next  day  drove  Dan  ; 

Boy  though  he  was,  he  worked  like  a  man. 

His  mother  behind  him  sat  in  her  chair, 

Still  knitting,  but  knitting  another  pair. 

They  roused  the  valley,  then  drove  through  the  gorge, 

And  stopped  for  a  minute  at  Compton's  forge  ; 

Then  on  to  Boonton,  and  there  they  were  fed, 

While  the  letter  was  passed  around  and  read. 

"  Knit,"  said  Rhoda  to  all,  "  as  fast  as  you  can  ; 

Send  the  stockings  to  me  ;  and  my  son  Dan, 

The  first  of  next  week,  will  drive  me  down, 

And  I'll  take  the  stockings  to  Morristown." 

Then  from  Boonton  home,  and  at  set  of  sun 

She  entered  her  house  with  her  stockings  done. 

On  Thursday,  they  knit  from  morn  till  night, 
She  and  the  girls,  with  all  their  might. 
When  the  yarn  gave  out,  they  carded  and  spun, 
And  every  day  more  stockings  were  done. 

[150] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


When  the  wool  was  gone,  then  they  killed  a  sheep — 

A  cosset — but  nobody  stopped  to  weep, 

They  pulled  the  fleece  and  they  carded  away, 

And  spun  and  knitted  from  night  until  day. 

In  all  the  country  no  woman  could  rest, 

But  they  knitted  on  like  people  possessed  ; 

And  Parson  Condit  expounded  his  views 

On  the  Sabbath  day  unto  empty  pews, 

Except  for  a  few  stray  lads  who  came 

And  sat  in  the  gallery,  to  save  the  name. 

On  Monday  morn,  at  an  early  hour 

The  stockings  came  in — a  perfect  shower — 

A  shower  that  lasted  until  the  night  ; 

Black,  brown  and  gray  ones,  and  mixed  blue  and  white. 

There  were  pairs  one  hundred  and  thirty -three, 

Long  ones,  remember,  up  to  the  knee  ; 

And  the  next  day  Rhoda  carried  them  down 

In  the  old  ox- wagon  to  Morristown. 

I  hear,  like  an  echo,  the  soldiers'  cheers 
For  Rhoda  and  Dan,  the  wagon  and  steers, 
Growing  wilder  yet  for  the  chief  in  command  ; 
While  up  at  "salute"  to  the  brow  flies  each  hand, 
As  Washington  passes,  desiring  them 
To  thank  Mistress  Farrand  in  the  name  of  his  men. 
But  the  words  that  her  husband's  lips  let  fall, 
"  I  knew  you  would  do  it  !  "  were  best  of  all. 
And  I  think  in  these  Centennial  days 
That  she  should  be  given  her  meed  of  praise  ; 
And  while  we  are  singing  of  'Auld  Lang  Syne.' 
Her  name,  with  the  others,  deserves  to  shine. 

Eleanor   A.   Hunter. 


This  poem  is  historically  correct  in  every  particular.  Rhoda 
Farrand  was  one  of  the  noble  characters  which  those  trying  times  pro 
duced,  and  her  memory  is  to  this  day  a  source  of  inspiration.  The  inci 
dent  of  the  stockings  is  only  one  example  of  her  energy  and  patriotism. 

Samuel  Smith  and  his  wife  Hannah  Allen  lived  at  Parsipany, 
about  five  miles  from  Morristown,  N.  J. ;  and  had  nine  children.  Rhoda, 
third  child,  and  the  heroine  of  this  poem,  was  born  in  1747,  married 
Bethuel  Farrand  in  1762  and  had  eleven  children,  Daniel,  Nathan,  Betsy, 
Moses,  Hannah,  Bethuel,  Samuel,  Rebecca,  Richard,  Eleanor,  and  Nancy; 
four  of  whom  are  named  in  the  poem. 

Bethuel  had  command  of  a  company  of  New  Jersey  volunteers 
which  had  been  raised  in  response  to  a  special  call  from  General  Wash- 

[151] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


ington  while  in  winter  quarters  at  Morristown,  and  he  is  said  to  have  been 
present  with  his  command  at  the  siege  and  surrender  of  Yorktown.  Ow 
ing  to  wounds  received  in  battle,  Lieutenant  Farrand  suffered  for  many 
years  as  an  invalid.  He  died  in  1794  and  was  buried  in  the  churchyard 
at  Parsipany. 

Rhoda's  parents  with  their  five  young  children  had  left  New  Jersey 
in  1770  and  settled  at  Bridport,  Vermont.  There  two  of  Rhoda's 
brothers,  Nathan  and  Marshall,  were  active  patriots  in  the  Vermont 
militia;  they  aided  Ethan  Allen  in  the  capture  of  Ticonderoga,  but  were 
afterward  taken  by  the  British  General  Carleton  and  held  in  the  city  of 
Quebec  for  sixteen  months  as  prisoners  of  war. 

When  Rhoda's  relatives  in  Vermont  heard  of  Bethuel's  death  in 
1794,  they  came  and  took  Rhoda  and  her  three  youngest  children  to 
Bridport,  where  Rhoda  spent  the  closing  years  of  her  life  in  peace  and 
comfort  at  the  home  of  her  son-in-law,  Captain  Newton  Hayward. 

She  died  June  30,  1839,  at  the  age  of  ninety-two  years.  To  the 
last,  her  memory  was  strong  and  clear  concerning  the  incidents  connected 
with  the  toils  and  anxieties,  the  labors  and  sufferings,  of  the  Revolutionary 
days ;  and  she  took  great  delight  in  relating  to  her  grandchildren  and  great 
grandchildren  the  scenes  of  those  memorable  times. 

This  poem  was  read  at  a  meeting  of  the  New  Jersey  Society,  Sons 
of  the  American  Revolution,  on  February  22,  1892,  the  anniversary  of 
Washington's  birthday. 


DIVIDENT  HILL. 

May  20,  1668. 

Divident  Hill  was  the  dividing  point  between  Newark  Town  and 
Elizabeth  Town  from  May  20,  1668,  until  1834  when  Clinton  township 
was  organized.  The  meeting  of  the  commissioners  in  1668  to  establish 
the  boundary  line  between  these  two  youthful  cities  was  conducted  with 
great  formality  and  solemnity.  When  the  commissioners  assembled, 
Robert  Treat  of  Newark  led  in  prayer,  praying  that  "there  might  be  good 
agreement  between  them";  and  when  their  task  was  ended,  John  Ogden 
of  Elizabeth  Town  prayed  among  the  people  and  gave  "thanks  for  their 
loving  agreement." 

Pause  here,  O  Muse!  that  Fancy's  eye 

May  trace  the  footprints  still 
Of  men  that,  centuries  gone  by, 

With  prayer  ordained  this  hill; 
As  lifts  the  misty  veil  of  years, 

Such  visions  here  arise 
As  when  the  glorious  Past  appears 

Before  enchanted  eyes. 

I  see,  from  midst  the  faithful  few 

Whose  deeds  yet  live  sublime — 
Whose  guileless  spirits,  brave  as  true, 

Are  models  for  all  time, 
A  group  upon  this  height  convened — 

In  solemn  prayer  they  stand — 

[152] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Men,  on  whose  sturdy  wisdom  leaned 
The  settlers  of  our  land. 

In  mutual  love  the  line  they  trace 

That  will  their  homes  divide, 
And  ever  mark  the  chosen  place 

That  prayer  hath  sanctified; 
And  here  it  stands — a  temple  old, 

Which  crumbling  time  still  braves ; 
Though  ages  have  their  cycles  rolled 

Above  those  patriots'  graves. 

As  Christ,  transfiguerd  on  the  height, 

The  three  beheld  with  awe, 
And  near  his  radiant  form,  in  white, 

The  ancient  prophets  saw; 
So,  on  this  summit  I  behold  • 

With   beatific   sight, 
Once  more  our  praying  sires  of  old 

As  spirits  clothed  in  light. 

A  halo  crowns  the  sacred  hill, 

And  thence  glad  voices  raise 
A  song  that  doth  the  concave  fill — 

Their  prayers  are  turned  to  praise! 
Art  may  not  for  these  saints  of  old 

The  marble  urn  invent ; 
Yet  here  the  Future  shall  behold 

Their  Heaven-built  monument. 

Elizabeth  Clementine  Kinney. 


Here  is  a  transcript  of  the  original  agreement;  see  Records  of  the 
Town  of  Newark,  New  Jersey,  published  as  volume  VI.,  collections  of  the 
N.  J.  Historical  Society;  see  also  Historical  Discourses  relating  to  the 
First  Presbyterian  church  in  Newark,  by  Jonathan  F.  Stearns. 

"These  may  Certify  and  Declare,  that  we  Whose  Names  are  here 
unto  Subscribed,  being  Chosen  and  Commissioned  with  full  power  from 
Elizabeth  Town,  and  Newark  plantation  upon  Passaic  River,  to  agree 
upon  and  fully  Issue  the  Divident  Line  and  Bounds  Between  the  fore 
named  Elizabeth  Town  and  Newark  Town,  which  is  as  followeth,  Viz; 
That  it  is  Consented  unto  that  the  Center,  or  place  agreed  upon  by  the 
said  Agents  of  the  Towns  for  to  Begin  the  Dividing  bounds,  is  from  the 
Top  of  a  Little  round  hill,  named  divident  hill;  and  from  thence  to  run 
upon  a  North  West  Line,  Into  the  Country.  And  for  the  Ratifica 
tion  of  our  Agreements,  the  said  Agents  of  Elizabeth  Town  have 

[153] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


marked  an  Oak  Tree  with  an  E,  Next  them;  And  the  Said  Agents  of 
Newark  Town  have  marked  the  same  Tree  with  an  N,  on  that  side  Next 
them  and  their  Town ;  and  to  the  said  agreement  we  have  this  Twentieth 
day  of  May  in  the  year  1668,  set  to  our  hands  Enterchangably." 

Signed  by  Jasper  Crane,  Robt.  Treatt,  Mathew  Camfield,  Sam'l 
Swain,  Richd  Harrison  and  Thos.  Jonson,  as  Agents  for  Newark  Town. 

Signed  by  John  Ogden,  Luke  Watson,  Robt.  Bond  and  Jeffery 
Joanes,  as  Agents  for  Elizabeth  Town. 


FUIT  ILIUM. 

Washington's  Headquarters  at  Elizabeth. 

From  Complete  Poetical  Works;  copyright  1874  by 
Houghton  Mifflin  &  Company. 

One  by  one  they  died, — 

Last  of  all  their  race; 
Nothing  left  but  pride, 

Lace,  and  buckled  hose, 
Their  quietus  made, 

On  their  dwelling  place 
Ruthless  hands  are  laid: 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

See  the  ancient  manse 

Meet  its  fate  at  last! 
Time  in  his  advance, 

Age  nor  honor  knows; 
Ax  and  broadax  fall, 

Lopping  off  the  Past; 
Hit  with  bar  and  maul, 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Seven  score  years  it  stood: 

Yes,  they  built  it  well, 
Though  they  built  of  wood 

When  that  house  arose, 
For  its  cross-beams  square 

Oak  and  walnut  fell; 
Little  worse  for  wear, 

Down  the  old  house  goes' 

Rending  board  and  plank, 
Men  with  crowbars  ply, 


[154] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

Opening  fissures  dank, 

Striking  deadly  blows. 

From  the  gabled  roof 

How  the  shingles  fly! 

Keep  you  here  aloof, — 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 


Holding  still  its  place, 

There  the  chimney  stands, 
Stanch  from  top  to  base, 

Frowning  on  its  foes. 
Heave  apart  the  stones, 

Burst  its  iron   bands! 
How  it  shakes  and  groans! 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Round    the    mantelpiece 

Glisten  Scripture  tiles; 
Henceforth  they  shall  cease 

Painting  Egypt's  woes, 
Painting  David's  fight, 

Fair  Bathsheba's  smiles, 
Blinded  Samson's  might, — 

Down  the  old  house  goes!; 


On  these  oaken  floors 

High-shoed  ladies  trod ; 
Through  those  panelled  doors 

Trailed   their   furbelows ; 
Long  their  day  has  ceased; 

Now,  beneath  the  sod, 
With  the  worms  they  feast, — 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Many  a  bride  has  stood 

In  yon  spacious  room; 
Here  her  hand  was  wooed 

Underneath    the    rose ; 
O'er  that  sill  the  dead 

Reached  the  family  tomb; 
All  that  were  have  fled, — 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 


[1551 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Once,  in  yonder  hall, 

Washington,  they  say, 
Led  the  New  Year's  ball, 

Stateliest   of  beaux! 
O   that  minuet, 

Maids  and  matrons  gay! 
Are  there  such  sights  yet? 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

British   troopers   came 

Ere  another  year, 
With  their  coats  aflame 

Mincing  on  their  toes; 
Daughters   of   the   house 

Gave  them  haughty  cheer, 
Laughed  to  scorn  their  vows, — 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Doorway  high  the  box 

In  the  grass-plot  spreads; 
It  has  borne  its  locks 

Through   a   thousand   snows; 
In  an  evil  day 

From  those  garden  beds 
Now    'tis   hacked   away, — 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Lo!    the    sycamores, 

Scathed  and  scrawny  mates, 
At  the  mansion  doors 

Shiver,  full  of  woes; 
With  its  life  they  grew, 

Guarded  well   its   gates; 
Now  their  task  is  through, — 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

On  this  honored  site 

Modern  trade  will  build, — 
What  unseemly  fright 

Heaven  only  knows! 
Something  peaked   and  high 

Smacking  of  the  guild; 
Let  us  heave  a  sigh, — 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 
[156] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Just  before  the  Civil  war,  the  author  of  this  poem  resided  for  a 
time  in  the  city  of  Elizabeth,  N.  J.,  and  there  saw  workmen  engaged  in 
demolishing  a  fine  colonial  building  which  was  said  to  have  been  occupied 
by  .General  Washington  as  his  headquarters. 


GOVERNOR  PATERSON'S  BARGE  ON  THE  RARITAW. 

July  4,   1791. 

On  seeing  Governor  William  Paterson  on  board  his  barge  which 
was  elegantly  decorated  with  laurel  and  a  variety  of  the  most  beautiful 
flowers,  and  rowed  by  twelve  men  all  dressed  in  white. 

On  Raritan's  smooth  gliding  stream  we  view, 
With  pleasure  view,  the  man  whom  we  admire, 
On  this  auspicious  day,  'with  laurel  crowned. 
How  gracefully  the  honored  barge  moves  on; 
See  Neptune's  hardy  sons,  all  clad  in  white, 
Timing  their  oars  to  the  melodious  flutes. 

Not  Cleopatra's  celebrated  barge 

When  she,  full  armed  with  each  bewitching  charm, 

A  tyrant  bound  in  the  soft  chains  of  love, 

More  elegant  or  pleasing  could  appear, 

Nor  did  contain  a  jewel  of  such  worth. 

Not  freighted  with  a  proud  intriguing  Queen — 
She  nobly  bears  New-Jersey's  favorite  son, 
Our  guardian  Chief,  our  friend,  a  PATERSON. 

Capt.  Moses  Guest, 


New  Jersey  is  proud  of  William  Paterson  and  his  long  and  influen 
tial  career  as  a  statesman  and  jurist  during  the  formative  period  of  our 
state*and  nation.  He  was  a  deputy  from  Somerset  county  in  the  Provin 
cial  Congress  which  assembled  at  Trenton  in  May,  1775,  and  also  of  the 
Congress  that  framed  the  state  constitution  at  Burlington  in  June,  1776. 
He  was  immediately  appointed  attorney-general  of  New  Jersey  and  filled 
that  office  for  ten  years.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Continental  Congress 
and  also  of  the  Convention  that  framed  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States,  in  which  Convention  he  proposed  and  urged  the  "New  Jersey 
plan."  $i 

He  was  governor  of  New  Jersey,  1791-1793.  President  Washing 
ton  then  appointed  him  an  Associate  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States,  a  position  which  he  filled  with  signal  ability  for  twelve 
years. 

The  city  of  Paterson  is  named  in  his  honor. 

[157] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


ODE  TO  THE  RARITAN  RIVER. 

Lost  in  a  pleasing  wild  surprise, 
I  mark  the  fountains  round  me  rise 
And  in  an  artless  current  flow 
Thro'  dark  and  lofty  woods  below, 
That  from  the  world  the  soul  confine 
And  raise  the  thoughts  to  things  divine. 

O  sacred  stream!  a  stranger,  I 
Would  stay  to  see  thee  passing  by, 
And  mark  thee  wandering  thus  alone, 
With  varied  turns  so  like  my  own! 
Wild,  as  a  stranger  led  astray, 
I  see  thee  wind  in  woods  away, 
And  hasting  thro'  the  trees  to  glide, 
As  if  thy  gentle  face  to  hide, 
While  oft  in  vain  thou  wouldst  return 
To  visit  here  thy  native  urn ; 
But,  like  an  exile  doomed  no  more 
To  see  the  scenes  he  loved  before, 
You  wander  on,  and  wind  in  vain, 
Dispersed  amid  the  boundless  main. 

Here  often,  on  thy  borders  green, 
Perhaps  thy  native  sons  were  seen, 
Ere  slaves  were  made,  or  gold  was  known, 
Or  children  from  another  zone 
Inglorious  did  with  axes  rude 
Into  thy  noble  groves  intrude, 
And  forced  thy  naked  son  to  flee 
To  woods  where  he  might  still  be  free. 

And  thou!  that  art  my  present  theme, 
O  gentle  spirit  of  the  stream! 
Then  too,  perhaps,  to  thee  was  given 
A  name  among  the  race  of  heaven; 
And  oft  adored  by  Nature's  child 
Whene'er  he  wandered  in  the  wild. 

And  oft  perhaps,  beside  the  flood, 
In  darkness  of  the  grove  he  stood, 
Invoking  here  thy  friendly  aid 
To  guide  him  thro'  the  doubtful  shade; 


1158] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Till  overhead  the  moon  in  view 

Thro'  heaven's  blue  fields  the  chariot  drew, 

And  showed  him  all  thy  wat'ry  face, 

Reflected  with  a  purer  grace, 

Thy  many  turnings  thro'  the  trees, 

Thy  bitter  journey  to  the  seas; 

While  oft  thy  murmurs  loud  and  long 

Awaked  his  melancholy  song; 

Which  thus  in  simple  strain  began, 

"Thou  Queen  of  Rivers,  Raritan." 

John  Davis. 


RUTGERS  COLLEGE  HYMN. 

We  pray  the  founders'  prayer — that  here  may  rise 
A  temple  planted  on  a  mountain  crest, 

To  catch  the  first  glow  of  the  eastern  skies. 
Oh  sun  of  righteousness,  illume  our  west! 

Enrich  these  halls  with  science'  goodly  store, 

The  ages'  toil-worn  treasure,  time's  bequest; 

Man's  knowledge  turn  to  wisdom  more  and  more. 
Oh  sun  of  righteousness,  illume  our  west! 

Fulfill  the  golden  dreams  of  ardent  youth; 

Add  to  our  manhood's  prime  a  keener  zest, 
In  glad  devotion  to  the  search  for  truth. 

Oh  sun  of  righteousness,  illume  our  west! 

Crown  the  land's  wealth  with  a  diviner  creed, 
Service  and  stewardship  at  God's  behest; 

Dispel  the  night  of  selfishness  and  greed. 

Oh  sun  of  righteousness,  illume  our  west! 

Lo,  the  day  dawns!     The  deepening  color  soars; 

The  first  rays  redden  on  the  mountain's  crest, 
Lift  up  your  heads  ye  everlasting  doors; 

The  sun  of  righteousness  illumes  our  west. 

Louis  Bevier,  Jr. 


Rutgers  College,  founded  at  New  Brunswick,  N.  J.,  in  1766  has 
for  its  motto  Sol  Justitiae  et  Occidentem  Illustra.  The  above  hymn  was 
sung  at  the  inauguration  of  William  H.  S.  Demarest  as  President,  June 
20,  1906,  having  been  written  for  that  occasion. 

[159] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  OLD  RARITAN. 

My  father  sent  me  to  old  Rutgers, 
And  resolved  that  I  should  be  a  man, 

And  so  I  settled  down 

In  that  noisy  college  town, 
On  the  banks  of  the  old  Raritan. 

Chorus: 

On  the  banks  of  the  old  Raritan,  my  boys, 
Where  old  Rutgers  evermore  shall  stand, 

For  has  she  not  stood 

Since  the  time  of  the  flood, 
On  the  banks  of  the  old  Raritan. 

As  Fresh,  they  used  me  rather  roughly, 
But  I  the  fearful  gauntlet  ran, 

And  they  shook  me  so  about 

That  they  turned  me  inside  out, 
On  the  banks  of  the  old  Raritan. 

I  passed  through  all  these  tortures  nobly, 

And  then,  as  Soph,  my  turn  began, 
And  I  hazed  the  poor  Fresh  so 
That  they  longed  for  Heaven,  I  know, 

On  the  banks  of  the  old  Raritan. 

And  then  I  rested  at  my  pleasure, 

And  steered  quite  clear  of  Prex's  ban, 
And  the  stars  their  good-by  kissing 
Found  me  not  from  euchre  missing, 

On  the  banks  of  the  old  Raritan. 

And  soon  I  made  my  social  entree, 
When  I  laid  full  many  a  wicked  plan, 

And  by  my  cunning  art 

Slew  many  a  maiden's  heart, 
On  the  banks  of  the  old  Raritan. 

Then  sing  aloud  to  Alma  Mater, 
And  keep  the  Scarlet  in  the  van; 

For  with  her  motto  high 

Rutgers'  name  shall  never  die, 
On  the  banks  of  the  old  Raritan. 

Howard  Newton  Fuller. 
[160] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Mr.  Fuller,  the  author,  writes  thus  concerning  the  circumstances 
under  which  the  song  was  written  by  him: 

"Mr.  Edward  E.  Colburn,  class  of  1876,  who  had  just  organized 
the  first  Rutgers  Glee  Club,  came  to  my  room  one  afternoon,  I  think  about 
three  o'clock,  in  the  fall  of  1873,  and  asked  me  to  write  a  Rutgers  song 
for  the  club's  initial  public  concert  to  be  given  at  Metuchen  :  that  evenin  g. 
"On  the  Banks  of  the  Old  Dundee"  had  always  been  a  favorite  tune  of 
mine ;  so  without  delay  I  set  to  work  to  fit  some  appropriate  words  thereto. 
Mr.  Colburn  insisted  upon  having  the  finished  song  by  five  o'clock  in  order 
that  copies  might  be  made  and  a  rehearsal  had  before  the  club  started. 
I  made  the  best  combination  I  could  in  that  limited  time;  wherever  the 
tune  did  not  harmonize  with  the  words,  I  mongrelized  it,  and  handed  the 
song  to  Mr.  Colburn  at  the  promised  hour. 

"I  think  not  a  word  or  note  has  been  changed  since  the  song  left 
my  hands.  I  have  forgotten  how  "On  the  Banks  of  the  Old  Dundee1' 
runs;  but  I  fear  that  I  mangled  it  so  much  that  the  two  bear  but  little  re 
semblance  to  each  other.  The  old  song,  at  any  rate,  suggested  the  title 
for  the  new  one.  The  next  day  Mr.  Colburn  reported  that  the  song  had 
been  enthusiastically  received  although  the  boys  knew  it  so  imperfectly. 
Mr.  John  Oppie  of  Griggstown,  N.  J.,  class  of  1874,  then  the  college  or 
ganist,  scored  the  song  for  publication." 


THE  TOWERS  OF  PRINCETON. 

From    the    Train. 

From  Bramble  Brae  and  Other  Poems,  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons;  copyright.  1902. 

There  they  are!  above  the  green  trees  shining — 

Old  towers  that  top  the  castles  of  our  dreams, 

Their  turrets  bright  with  rays  of  sun  declining — 
A  painted  glory  in  the  window  gleams. 

But,  oh,  the  messages  to  travellers  weary 

They  signal  through  the  ether  in  the  dark! 
The  years  are  long,  the  path  is  steep  and  dreary, 

But  there's  a  bell  that  struck  in  boyhood — hark! 

The  note  is  faint — but  ghosts  are  gaily  trooping 

From  ivied  halls  and  swarming  'neath  the  trees. 

Old  friends,  you  bring  new  life  to  spirits  drooping — 
Your  langhter  and  your  joy  are  in  the  breeze. 

They're  gone  in  dusk — the  towers  and  dreams  are  faded — 

But  something  lingers  of  eternal  youth; 
We're  strong  again,  though  doubting,  worn  and  jaded, 

We  pledge  anew  to  friends  and  love  and  truth. 

Robert  Bridges. 

[161] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


There  they  are — They're  gone  in  dusk.  To  appreciate  fully  the  poet 
ical  conception  underlying  this  exquisite  little  poem,  it  must  be  remem 
bered  that  the  village  of  Princeton  is  not  situated  on  the  main  line  of  the 
railroad.  The  Princeton  alumnus,  while  passing  between  Trenton  and 
New  Brunswick,  can  look  northward  from  the  car  window  and  see 
the  pinacles  and  roofs  of  the  University  buildings  three  miles  away 
towering  above  the  tree-tops;  but  only  for  a  moment  can  he  enjoy  the 
sight  of  that  haven  of  rest,  that  source  of  youthful  memories,  for  the 
train  carries  him  quickly  onward. 


OLD    NASSAU. 

Tune  every  heart  and  every  voice, 

Bid  every  care  withdraw ; 
Let  all  with  one  accord  rejoice, 

In  praise  of  old  Nassau. 

In  praise  of  old  Nassau,  my  boys, 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  hurrah ! 

Her  sons  will  give,  while  they  shall  live, 
Three  cheers  for  old  Nassau  ! 

Let  music  rule  the  fleeting  hour, — 

Her  mantle  round  us  draw; 
And  thrill  each  heart  with  all  her  power, 

In  praise  of  old  Nassau. 

In  praise  of  old  Nassau,  etc. 

Their  sheen  forever  shall  impart 

A  zeal  beyond  compare, 
And  fire  each  ardent,  youthful  heart 

To  boldly  do  and  dare. 

To  boldly  do  and  dare,  etc. 

No  flowery  chaplet  would  we  twine 

To  wither  and  decay; 
The  gems  that  sparkle  in  her  crown 

Shall  never  pass  away. 

Shall  never  pass  away,  etc. 

And  when  these  halls  in  dust  are  laid, 

With  reverence  and  awe, 
Another  throng  shall  breathe  our  song, 

In  praise  of  old  Nassau. 

In  praise  of  old  Nassau,  etc. 

[162] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Till  then  with  joy  our  songs  we'll  bring, 

And  while  a  breath  we  draw, 
We'll  all  unite  to  shout  and  sing, 

Long  life  to  old  Nassau! 

Long  life  to  old  Nassau,  etc. 

Harlan  Page  Peck. 


While  an  undergraduate  of  Princeton  University,  (the  Rev.) 
Harlan  Page  Peck,  class  of  1862,  wrote  nearly  thirty  metrical  composi 
tions  which  appeared  in  the  Nassau  Literary  Magazine,  including  the 
'62  class  ode  and  the  '62  class  poem.  In  the  winter  of  1858-59,  this  maga 
zine  offered  a  prize  for  a  college  song,  and  in  the  number  for  March,  1859, 
appeared  Old  Nassau,  the  song  that  won  the  prize,  just  as  it  is  sung  to-day 
except  that  the  word  "harp"  in  the  first  verse  has  been  changed  to  "heart." 
It  was  sung  at  first  to  the  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne,  but  this  was  found  un 
suitable;  so  (the  Rev.)  William  C.  Stitt,  class  of  1857,  then  a  student  at  the 
Theological  Seminary,  one  morning  in  the  spring  of  1859,  went  to  the  house 
of  Mr.  Langlotz  (who  was  at  that  time  an  instructor  in  music  in  Princeton), 
and  told  him  to  write  a  new  piece  of  music  for  Old  Nassau  and  stood  over 
him  until  he  did  it. 

The  words  and  music  appeared  the  same  spring  in  Songs  of  Old 
Nassau,  the  first  book  of  Princeton  songs  and  the  prototype  of  the  popu 
lar  and  widely  known  Carmina  Princetonia. 


THE  BUILDERS. 

An  Academic  Ode. 

From  The  Builders  and  Other  Poems,  by  permission  of  the  author; 
copyright  1897  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

Bear  with  us  then  a  moment,  if  we  turn 
From  all  the  present  splendours  of  this  place, — - 
The  lofty  towers  that  like  a  dream  have  grown 
Where  once  old  Nassau  Hall  stood  all  alone, — 
Back  to  that  ancient  time,  with  hearts  that  burn 
In  filial  reverence  and  pride,  to  trace 

The  glory  of  our  Mother's  best  degree, 

In  that  "high  son  of  Liberty," 

Who  like  a  granite  block 

Riven  from  Scotland's  rock 
Stood  loyal  here  to  keep  Columbia  free. 

Born  far  away  beyond  the  ocean's  roar, 
He  found  his  fatherland  upon  this  shore; 
And  every  drop  of  ardent  blood  that  ran 
Through  his  great  heart  was  true  American. 

[163] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


He  held  no  weak  allegiance  to  a  distant  throne. 
But  made  his  new-found  country's  cause  his  own; 

In  peril  and  distress, 

In  toil  and  weariness, 

When   darkness  overcast  her 

With   shadows  of  disaster, 

And  voices  of  confusion 

Proclaimed  her   hope   delusion, 

Robed  in  his  preacher's  gown, 

He  dared  the  danger  down; 
Like  some  old  prophet  chanting  an  inspired  rune, 
Through  freedom's  councils  rang  the  voice  of  Witherspoon. 

And  thou,  my  country,  write  it  on  thy  heart: 
Thy  sons  are  they  who  nobly  take  thy  part; 
Who  dedicates  his  manhood  at  thy  shrine, 
Wherever  born,  is  born  a  son  of  thine. 
Foreign  in  name,  but  not  in  soul,  they  come 
To  find  in  thee  their  long-desired  home; 
Lovers  of  liberty,  and  haters  of  disorder, 
They  shall  be  built  in  strength  along  thy  border. 

Ah,  dream  not  that  thy  future  foes 
Will  all  be  foreign-born; 
Turn  thy  clear  look  of  scorn 

Upon  thy  children  who  oppose 
Their  passions  wild  and  policies  of  shame, 
To  wreck  the  righteous  splendours  of  thy  name! 
Untaught  and  over-confident  they  rise, 
With  folly  on  their  tongues  and  envy  in  their  eyes; 
Strong  to  destroy,  but  powerless  to  create, 
And  ignorant  of  all  that  made  our  fathers  great ; 
Their  hands  would  take  away  thy  golden  crown, 
And  shake  the  pillars  of  thy  freedom  down 
In  Anarchy's  ocean,  dark  and  desolate. 

Oh,  should  that  storm  descend, 

What  fortress  shall  defend 

The  land  our  Fathers  wrought  for, 

The  liberties  they  fought  for? 

What  bulwark  shall  secure 
Her  shrines  from  sacrilege  and  keep  her  altars  pure? 

Then,  ah  then, 
As  in  the  olden  days, 
The  builders  must  upraise 

[164] 


TRENTON  BATTLE  MONUMENT 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


A  rampart  of  indomitable  men. 

Once  again, 

Dear  Mother,  if  thy  heart  and  hand  be  true, 
There  will  be  building  work  for  thee  to  do. 

Yea,  more  than  once  again, 
Thou  shalt  win  lasting  praise, 
And  never  dying  honour  shall  be  thine, 
For  setting  many  stones  in  that  illustrious  line, 
To  stand  unshaken  in  the  swirling  strife, 
And  guard  their  country's  honour  as  her  life! 

Henry  van  Dyke. 


This  Ode  was  written  by  Henry  van  Dyke  and  recited  by  him  in 
Alexander  Hall  on  October  21,  1896,  at  the  Sesquicentennial  Celebration 
of  the  Founding  of  the  College  of  New  Jersey  and  of  the  ceremonies  in 
augurating  Princeton  University.  See  Memorial  Book,  printed  for  the 
Trustees  of  the  University  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  The  Ode  consists 
of  twelve  irregular  sections  or  stanzas;  the  ninth  stanza  is  printed  here 
entire. 


BATTLE  MONUMENT. 

Trenton,  October  19,  1893. 

By  permission  of  the  author;  copyrighted 

Since  ancient  Time  began 

Ever  on  some  great  soul  God  laid  an  infinite  burden — 
The  weight  of  all  this  world,  the  hopes  of  man. 

Conflict  and  pain,  and  fame  immortal  are  his  guerdon! 

And  this  the  unfaltering  token 

Of  him,  the  Deliverer — what  though  tempests  beat, 
Though  all  else  fail,  though  bravest  ranks  be  broken, 

He  stands  unscared,  alone,  nor  ever  knows  defeat. 

Such  was  that  man  of  men ; 

And  if  are  praised  all  virtues,  every  fame 
Most  noble,  highest,  purest — then,  ah!  then, 

Upleaps  in  every  heart  the  name  none  needs  to  name. 

Ye  who  defeated,   'whelmed, 

Betray  the  sacred  cause,  let  go  the  trust; 
Sleep,  weary,  while  the  vessels  drift  unhelmed; 

Here  see  in  triumph  rise  the  hero  from  the  dustl 

[165] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


All  ye  who  fight  forlorn 

'Gainst  fate  and  failure;  ye  who  proudly  cope 
With  evil  high  enthroned;  all  ye  who  scorn 

Life  from  Dishonor's  hand,  here  take  new  heart  of  hope. 

Here  know  how  Victory  borrows 

For  the  brave  soul  a  front  as  of  disaster, 
And  in  the  bannered  East  what  glorious  morrows 

For  all  the  blackness  of  the  night  speed  surer,  faster. 

Know  by  this  pillared  sign 

For  what  brief  while  the  powers  of  earth  and  hell 
Can  war  against  the  spirit  of  truth  divine, 

Or  can  against  the  heroic  heart  of  man  prevail. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


The  Battle  Monument  at  Trenton  was  dedicated  Oct.  19,  1893. 
It  is  surmounted  by  a  statue  of  Washington,  and  bears  a  tablet  presented 
by  the  Society  of  the  Cincinnati  in  the  state  of  New  Jersey,  which  reads: 
"This  monument  is  erected  by  the  Trenton  Battle  Monument  Association 
to  commemorate  the  victory  gained  by  the  American  Army  over  the  forces 
of  Great  Britain  in  this  town  on  the  26th  day  of  December,  Anno-Domini, 
1776."-  It  stands  at  the  junction  of  several  streets  and  marks  the  exact 
spot  where  Washington  stood  while  directing  the  movements  of  his  troops 
during  the  battle. 


TO    DELIA. 

Written   on   a   leaf   in   her   pocket-book. 
Bordentown,  N.  J.,  May,  1768. 

Go  little  leaf,  and  to  the  fair, 

The  mistress  of  my  heart, 
My  truth  and  constancy  declare, 

My   ardent  love  impart. 

But  how  shall  thy  small  page  contain 
That  which  no  bounds  control? 

Or  how  shall  feeble  words  explain 
The  transports  of  the  soul? 

Go,  tell  her  then  that  nothing  less 

Than  a  whole  life  of  love 
Can  all  my  joy  in  her  express, 

Can  my  fixed  passion  prove, — 


[166] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


That  nought  but  death  can  from  my  mini 

Her  dear  idea  part, 
And  lovely  Delia  ne'er  shaL  find 

A  rival  in  my  heart. 

Go,  tell  her  all  our  peaceful  years 
In  mutual  bliss  we'll   spend, 

And  hope  to  meet  beyond  the  spheres 
When  this  frail  life  shall  end. 

Francis  Hopkinson. 


DELIA,    PRIDE    OF    BORDEN'S   HILL. 

A    Song    Written    July,     1768. 

Soft    ideas,    love-inspiring, 

Every   placid  joy   unite; 
Every  anxious  thought  retiring, 

Fill  my  bosom  with  delight. 

Soft    ideas,    gently-flowing, 

On  your  tide  so  calm  and  still, 

Bear  me  where  sweet  zephyrs,  blowing, 
Wave  the  pines  of  Borden's  Hill, — 

Where  the  breezes,   odors  bringing, 

Fill  the  grove  with  murmuring  sound, 

Where  shrill  notes  of  birds,  sweet-singing, 
Echo  to  the  hills  around. 

To  the  pleasing  gloom  convey  me; 

Let  my  Delia  too  be  there; 
On  her  gentle  bosom  lay  me, 

On  her  bosom  soft  and  fair. 

Whilst  I  there,  with  rapture  burning 

All  my  joy  in  her  express; 
Let  her,  love  for  love  returning, 

Me  with  fond  caresses  bless. 

On  his  little  wings  descending, 
Bring  the  god  of  soft  delight: 


[167] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Hymen  too,  with  torch  attending, 

Must  our  hands  and  hearts  unite. 

She,  the  source  of  all  my  pleasure, 

Shall  my  breast  with  transport  fill: 

Delia  is  my  soul's  best  treasure, 
Delia,  pride  of  Borden's-Hill. 

Francis  Hopkinson 


THE  DELAWARE. 

From  M-into  and  Other  Poems;  copyright  1888. 

Hail!  thou  prince  of  noble  rivers, 
On  whose  lofty  bank  I  stand, 

Listening,  as  each  leaflet  quivers 

Trilled  by  evening  zephyrs  bland — 

Listening,  while  I  gazing  muse 

On  thy  landscape's  sun-lit  views. 

Onward  trending  to  the  ocean, 

Glide  the  sport  of  many  an  oar, 

Till  thy  gently  rippling  motion 

Heaves  in  breakers  on  its  shore — 

Till  thy  waters,  mingling  there, 

Cease  to  own  thee,  Delaware. 

Once  the  Indian  forest-ranger 

Launched  on  thee  his  birch-canoe, 

And,  unawed  by  foe  or  danger, 
O'er  thy  crested  ripples  flew; 

But  no  more  the  red-man  rows 

Where  thy  gurgling  current  flows. 

Once  the  chief  of  chieftains  chosen, 
Anxious  on  thy  margin  stood, 

Gazing  on  thee,  dark  and  frozen, 
On  thy   icy-rolling  flood — 

Gazing,  while  his  shivering  bands 

Wait  unshrinking  his  commands. 

Winter's  storm  and  night  appalling, 
Fill  with  double  dread  thy  waves; 

He,  though  fierce  the  sleet  is  falling, 

Cheers  them  onward,  cheers  his  braves; 


[168] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Yes,  undaunted  he  has  there 
Bid  them  cross  thee,  Delaware. 

Cold  and  dark  thy  sullen  waters 
Roll  around  his  dauntless  few, 

Whilst  their  Chieftain,  nerved  to  slaughters, 
Leads  them  boldly,  leads  them  through — 

Leads,  and  with  the  morning  sun, 

Conquest  crowns  our  Washington! 

On  our  eagle's  bannered  pinions 

Wide  is  borne  the  victor's  fame, 

Till,  through  freedom's  owned  dominions, 
All  have  echoed  back  his  name; 

Till  the  flag  that  morn  unfurled, 

Signaled  freedom  to  the  world! 

Hail  again,  thou  classic  river, 

Hail  for  scenes  of  other  days, 
When  the  might  of  freedom's  Giver 

Crowned  our  arms  with  fadeless  bays — 
Crowned,  and  while  those  wreaths  are  there, 
Thou  art  honored,  Delaware. 

Freighted  with  the  wealth  of  nations, 
Borne  to  thee  from  distant  climes, 

May  thy  banks  the  consternations 
Know  no  more  of  early  times; 

But  may  fleets  of  commerce  glide 

Ever  safely  on  thy  tide. 

Oliver  Crane. 


THE    DELAWARE    RIVER. 

These  thoughts  were  suggested  to  the  author  while  floating  in  a 
skiff  on  the  Delaware  river  off  Burlington. 

The  mild  and  softly  flowing  Delaware! 

Gliding  along  as  if  afraid  to  mar 

The  deep  repose  with  which  on  every  side 

Beauty  is  sleeping  on  its  tranquil  banks. 

They  tell  me  that  the  weary  denizens 

Of  wealth  have  built  them  here  their  bowers  of  ease; 

[169] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


And  well  these  fair  creations  of  their  hours 

Of  freedom  show  that  deep  and  innate  love 

Of  nature  and  of  beauty,  which  had  long 

Been  stifled  in  the  city's  slavery. 

Through  the  embowering  foliage  brightly  gleam 

The  graceful  villas  with  their  fair  white  walls, 

And  pillared  porticoes,  and  clustering  flowers, 

And  verdant  lawns  gracefully  sweeping  down 

To  meet  the  river,  edged  with  trees  whose  boughs 

Low  drooping  kiss  their  image  trembling  in 

The  gentle  wave  below.     In  these  fair  scenes 

Each  sad  remembrance,  and  each  thought  of  gloom, 

And  every  dark  foreboding  leaves  the  soul, 

And  like  the  facile  bosom  of  the  stream, 

It  takes  the  hue  and  semblance  of  the  calm 

And  placid  beauty  which  is  spread  around; 

And  the  vain  fancy  almost  makes  us  deem 

This  gentle  loveliness  the  harbinger 

Of  hope  and  joy.     And  such  thou  wast  to  us, 

Beautiful  river!     in  the  war  between 

The  right  of  weakness  and  the  strength  of  wrong, 

Which  ushered  us  in  olden  times  among 

The  nations.     When  that  small  and  patriot  band 

Had  found  their  untrained  valor  powerless 

Against  oppression's  mercenary  ranks; 

When  each  successive  battle  had  but  served 

To  dye  the  bosom  of  their  native  land 

With  blood  in  vain,  and  cumber  it  anew 

With  her  devoted  sons;  and  backward  drove 

A  still  more  shattered  remnant,  flying  still 

O'ermatched  and  destitute,  until  at  last 

Their  bloody  foot-prints  marked  the  frozen  ground, 

And  cold  and  want  struck  deeper  than  their  foes; 

When  shrunk  the  timid  from  the  unequal  strife, 

And  e'en  the  best  and  bravest  whispering  spoke 

Of  sad  submission,  and  all  seemed  subdued, 

And  dark,  and  hopeless,  save  the  unyielding  soul 

Of  Washington ; — 'twas  first  upon  these  banks 

That  the  disastrous  tide  of  battle  turned. 

'Twas  here  that  feeble,  faint,  exhausted  band, 

Which  scarce  had  seemed  to  have  the  power  to  drag 

Its  wounded  length  along  its  blood-stained  course, 

Rose  as  a  fiery  dragon  on  its  foes, 

And  wrested  twice  from  their  astonished  grasp 

The  prize  of  war,  and  sent  them  cowering  back 

[170] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


To  gain  new  strength  to  cope  with  their  despised 

And  prostrate  quarry.     And  in  after  times, 

When  that  eventful  strife  was   o'er,  and  he, 

Whose  valor  had  thus  led  his  country's  arms 

To  victory,  now  ruled  in  wisdom  o'er 

Her  infant  councils, — it  was  on  these  shores 

That  the  fair  bands  of  maids  and  matrons  strewed 

With  flowers  his  way  across  the  fields,  o'er  which 

He  had  in  times  of  doubt  and  peril  led 

Their  husbands  and  their  fathers ;  and  'twas  here 

That  they  invoked  those  blessings  on  his  head. 

Which  still  are  dearest  from  our  native  land, 

And  ever  sweetest  in  the  gentle  voice 

Of  beauty.     What  emotions  must  that  scene, 

The  smiles  of  that  fair  band,  and  the  sad  thoughts 

Of  other  days  have  waked  within  a  breast 

Like  his  alive  as  well  to  every  soft, 

As  every  lofty  feeling  of  the  soul! 

The  fame  of  that  all-noble  being  seems 

An  ark  too  sacred  to  be  rashly  touched 

By  a  weak  hand  like  mine.     Why  speak  of  him 

To  those  upon  whose  hearts  his  memory 

Is  stamped  forever,  joined  with  every  fond 

And  holy  feeling,  which  is  wont  to  rise 

Within  the  human  soul  to  that  one  word — 

Our  Father  ?     Why  assay  to  swell  the  praise 

Of  one,  whose  name  alone  still  throws  the  awe 

Of  reverence  upon  the  laughing  face 

Of  childhood,  and  spreads  o'er  the  cheek  of  youth 

The  shade  of  thought,  or  kindles  there  the  glow 

Of  emulation,  and  calls  to  the  eye 

Of  age  the  tear  of  fond  devotion,  drawn 

From  the  shrunk  fountains  which  have  long  been  dry 

To  every  other  feeling?     Even  now 

The  flood  of  deep  emotion,  which  the  thought 

Of  him  has  raised  within  my  breast, — the  crowd 

Of  feelings  struggling  each  for  utterance, 

Seems  to  forbid  that  I  should  farther  seek 

To  twine  his  name  within  my  idle  verse. 

His  tale  is  graven  on  a  far  more  high 

And  lasting  tablet  than  the  lying  page 

Of  poesy.     And  there  it  stands,  a  link 

To  bind  us  to  the  noble  times  of  old; 

A  lesson  to  the  sordid  selfishness 

Of  modern  days.     In  a  polluted  age, 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


He  joined  the  patriot  virtue  of  old  Rome, 

With  Spartan  modesty  and  courage,  ruled 

And  tempered  all,  by  the  stern  self-control 

And  wisdom  of  the  sage  of  ancient  Greece. 

In  a  base,  venal  age,  he  staked  his  wealth, 

And  life,  and  fame  upon  a  desperate  cause; 

And  when  his  daring  and  his  skill  alone 

Had  won  for  us  the  victory  which  few 

Had  hoped,  he  wrung  no  treasures  from  his  faint 

And  feeble  country;  and  he  turned  away 

From  the  bright  meed  of  dazzling  power,  which 

A  grateful  people,  and  an  army  bound 

With  ties  of  love,  in  rivalry  had  heaped 

Upon  him.     The  delusive  meteor  whims 

Of  fancy  all  were  impotent  with  him. 

Each  faculty  and  power  of  his  mind 

Bowed  in  subjection  to  the  sway  of  thought. 

The  childish  vanity, — the  thirst  for  praise, 

Which  have  so  often  led  the  great  to  strive 

Rather  to  dazzle  than  to  serve  mankind; 

To  seek  their  favor  for  the  present  hour, 

Before  their  lasting  interest ;  all  these 

Were  powerless  with  him.     Each  hope,  and  wish, 

And  feeling  of  his  soul  was  sternly  ruled 

By  his  pure  love  of  country.     On  the  rock 

Of  self-approval  he  had  made  his  stand, 

And  there  the  storm  of  power  might  burst  in  vain, 

And  all  in  vain  the  gentle  summer  waves 

Of  public  favor  courted  him  to  launch 

Upon  their  treacherous  depths.     His  country's  good! 

His  country's  glory!     These  were  the  sole  rules 

Of  action  which  he  knew.     His  only  end 

Was  still  to  serve  his  country,  e'en  against 

Her  will, — e'en  at  the  risk  of  forfeiting 

For  a  brief  time  her  love.     And  he  chose  well. 

And  even  if,  like  other  conquerors, 

He  too  had  toiled  for  selfish  ends  alone, 

And  laughed  at  patriotism  as  the  lure  of  fools, 

Still  he  had  chosen  wisely.     In  the  race 

Of  fame,  who  wins  as  high  a  meed  of  praise 

As  his?     What  despot's  thraldom  ever  matched 

The  tyranny  of  love,  with  which  he  ruled 

A  land  of  willing  freemen?     Who  through  life, 

Or  after  death,  has  reached  the  boundless  power, 

With  which  his  name  now  sways,  and  yet  shall  sway 

[172] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 

To  latest  times,  the  minds  of  men?     The  still 
Unchanging  watchword  in  the  sacred  cause 
Of  Liberty, — forbidden,   hushed,   and  feared 
By  tyrants,  loudest  sounded  still,  where  men 
Are  leagued  to  free  and  to  exalt  their  kind. 

Thomas  Ward. 


The  poem  above  is  taken  from  A  Month  of  Freedom,  an  American 
Poem,  a  book  which  was  published  anonymously  in  New  York  city  in 
1837.  The  poem  is  a  versified  account  of  a  vacation  trip  beginning  at  the 
city  of  Washington  and  extending  by  way  of  the  rivers  Delaware  and 
Hudson  to  the  Adirondacks  and  to  Niagara  Falls. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  KEGS. 

David  Bushnell  of  Connecticut  spent  four  years  in  devising  and 
constructing  a  sub-marine  vessel  for  the  purpose  of  destroying  warships. 
Having  completed  the  machine  in  177S,  he  made  three  attempts  to  blow 
up  British  vessels,  one  in  New  York  harbor,  one  in  the  Hudson  river  and 
one  in  Long  Island  sound;  the  first  two  were  complete  failures;  in  the  last, 
he  wrecked  a  near-by  schooner  instead  of  the  aimed-at  frigate. 

In  1777  he  invented  a  triggered  contrivance  to  be  fastened  in 
the  middle  of  a  keg  of  powder  which  would  cause  an  explosion  when 
jarred.  He  went  to  Bordentown,  N.  J.,  and  there  manufactured  a  number 
of  these  torpedoes. 

We  now  give  the  inventor's  own  account  of  the  affair  communi 
cated  by  him  to  Thomas  Jefferson  in  October,  1787,  and  published  in 
volume  IV  of  the  Transactions  of  the  American  Philosophical  Society. 

"I  fixed  several  kegs  under  water,  charged  with  powder,  to  explode 
upon  touching  any  thing,  as  they  floated  along  with  the  tide:  I  then  set 
them  afloat  in  the  Delaware,  above  the  English  shipping  at  Philadelphia, 
in  December,  1777. 

I  was  unacquainted  with  the  river  and  obliged  to  depend  upon  a 
gentleman  very  imperfectly  acquainted  with  that  part  of  it,  as  I  after 
wards  found.  We  went  as  near  the  shipping  as  he  durst  venture;  I  believe 
the  darkness  of  the  night  greatly  deceived  him,  as  it  did  me. 

We  set  them  adrift  to  fall  with  the  tide,  upon  the  shipping.  Had 
we  been  within  sixty  rods,  I  believe  they  must  have  fallen  in  with  them 
immediately,  as  I  designed;  but  as  I  afterwards  found,  they  were  set  adrift 
much  too  far  distant,  and  did  not  arrive,  until  after  being  detained  some 
time  by  frost,  they  advanced  in  the  day  time,  in  a  dispersed  situation,  and 
under  great  disadvantages. 

One  of  them  blew  up  a  boat  with  several  persons  in  it,  who  im 
prudently  handled  it  too  freely,  and  thus  gave  the  British  that  alarm 
which  brought  on  The  Battle  of  the  Kegs.". 

David  Bushnell. 

[173] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  New  Jersey  Gazette,  of  Burlington,  in  its  issue  of  January  2 1 , 
1778,  published  a  delightfully  humorous  account  of  the  Battle  of  the  Kegs. 
There  can  be  little  doubt  that  it  was  written  by  Francis  Hopkinson  who 
seems  to  have  put  it  forth  as  the  preliminary  step  to  a  climax  in  order 
to  prepare  the  public  mind  in  advance  for  a  keener  appreciation  of  his 
poetical  treatment  of  the  same  subject  in  his  forth-coming  and  now 
famous  ballad. 

The  editor  of  the  Gazette  avails  himself  of  the  editorial  prerogative 
of  indirectness;  he  pretends  that  the  account  he  published  in  that  issue 
is  an  extract  from  a  letter  written  in  Philadelphia  on  January  9,  1778, 
by  an  eye-witness;  that  this  letter  had  been  secretly  forwarded  through 
the  military  lines  to  a  friend  at  Trenton;  and  that  this  un-named  friend 
writing  from  Trenton  to  the  editor  under  date  of  January  12th  had  en 
closed  the  extract  and  had  expressed  a  desire  for  its  publication  in  the 
Gazette. 

"This  city  has  lately  been  entertained  with  a  most  astonishing 
instance  of  the  activity,  bravery  and  military  skill  of  the  royal  navy  of 
Great-Britain.  The  affair  is  somewhat  peculiar  and  deserves  your  notice. 

Sometime  last  week  two  boys  observed  a  keg  of  singular  construc 
tion  floating  in  the  river  opposite  the  city;  they  got  into  a  small  boat, 
and  attempting  to  take  up  the  keg,  it  burst  with  a  great  explosion  and 
blew  up  the  unfortunate  boys. 

On  Monday  several  kegs  of  a  like  construction  made  their  appear 
ance.  An  alarm  was  immediately  spread  thro'  the  city. 

Various  reports  prevailed,  filling  the  city  and  the  royal  troops 
with  unspeakable  consternation.  Some  reported  that  these  kegs  were 
filled  with  armed  rebels  who  were  to  issue  forth  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 
as  the  Grecians  did  of  old  from  the  wooden  horse  at  the  siege  of  Troy 
and  take  the  city  by  surprise;  asserting  that  they  had  seen  the  points 
of  their  bayonets  thro'  the  bung-holes  of  the  kegs.  Others  said  they 
were  charged  with  the  most  inveterate  combustibles  to  be  kindled  by 
secret  machinery  and,  setting  the  whole  Delaware  on  fire,  were  to  consume 
all  the  shipping  in  the  harbour ;  whilst  others  asserted  that  they  were  con 
structed  by  an  art  magic,  would  of  themselves  ascend  the  wharfs  in  the 
night  time  and  roll  all-aflaming  thro'  the  streets  of  the  city,  destroying 
everything  in  their  way. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  certain  it  is  that  the  shipping  in  the  harbour 
and  all  the  wharfs  of  the  city  were  fully  manned.  The  battle  began  and 
it  was  surprizing  to  behold  the  incessant  blaze  that  was  kept  up  against 
the  enemy,  the  kegs.  Both  officers  and  men  exhibited  the  most  unparal 
leled  skill  and  bravery  on  that  occasion;  whilst  the  citizens  stood  gazing 
as  solemn  witnesses  of  their  prowess.  From  the  Roebuck  and  other 
ships  of  war,  whole  broadsides  were  poured  into  the  Delaware.  In  short, 
not  a  wandering  chip,  stick,  or  drift-log  but  felt  the  vigour  of  the  British 
arms. 

The  action  began  about  sun-rise  and  would  have  been  compleated 
with  great  success  by  noon,  had  not  an  old  market-woman,  coming  down 
the  river  with  provisions,  unfortunately  let  a  small  keg  of  butter  fall 
overboard  which  (as  it  was  then  ebb)  floated  down  to  the  scene  of  the  action. 

At  this  unexpected  re-inforcement  of  the  enemy,  the  battle  was 
renewed  with  fresh  fury;  the  firing  was  incessant  till  the  evening  closed 
the  affair.  The  kegs  were  either  totally  demolished  or  obliged  to  fly,  as 
none  of  them  have  shewn  their  heads  since. 

[174] 


FRANCIS   HOPKINSON 
Of  Bordentown,  New  Jersey 

Signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


It  is  said  His  Excellency  Lord  Howe  has  dispatched  a  swift  sail 
ing  packet  with  an  account  of  this  victory,  to  the  court  of  London. 

In  a  word,  Monday  the  5th  of  January,  1778,  must  ever  be  distin 
guished  in  history  for  the  memorable  Battle  of  the  Kegs.". 
Trenton,  January   12,    1778. 


Gallants,  attend  and  hear  a  friend 
Trill  forth  harmonious  ditty; 

Strange  things  I'll  tell  which  late  befell 
In  Philadelphia  city. 

'Twas  early  day,  as  poets  say, 
Just  when  the  sun  was  rising, 

A  soldier  stood  on  a  log  of  wood 
And  saw  a  thing  surprising. 

As  in  amaze  he  stood  to  gaze, 

The  truth  can't  be  denied,  sir, 

He  spied  a  score  of  kegs,  or  more, 
Come  floating  down  the  tide,  sir. 

A  sailor,  too,  in  jerkin  blue, 

This  strange  appearance  viewing, 
First  damn'd  his  eyes,  in  great  surprise; 

Then  said,   "Some  mischief's  brewing,- 

"These  kegs,  I'm  told,  the  rebels  hold, 
Pack'd  up  like  pickled  herring; 

And  they've  come  down  to  attack  the  town, 
In  this  new  way  of  ferrying." 

The  soldier  flew,  the  sailor,  too, 

And,  scared  almost  to  death,  sir, 

Wore  out  their  shoes  to  spread  the  news, 
And  ran  till  out  of  breath,  sir. 

Now  up  and  down,  throughout  the  town, 
Most  frantic  scenes  were  acted; 

And  some  ran  here,  and  others  there, 
Like  men   almost   distracted. 

Some  "Fire!"  cried,  which  some  denied 
But  said  the  earth  had  quaked; 

And  girls  and  boys  with  hideous  noise 
Ran  through  the  streets  half  naked. 


[175] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Sir  William  he,  snug  as  a  flea, 
Lay  all  this  time  a  snoring, 

Nor  dreamed  of  harm  as  he  lay  warm, 
In  bed  with  Mr.  Loring. 

Now  in  a  fright  he  starts  upright, 
Awaked  by  such  a  clatter; 

He  rubs  both  eyes,  and  boldly  cries, 

"For  God's  sake,  what's  the  matter?' 

At  his  bedside  he  then  espied 

Sir  Erskine  at  command,  sir, 

Upon  one  foot  he  had  one  boot, 
And  the  other  in  his  hand,  sir. 

"Arise,  arise,"  Sir  Erskine  cries, 

"The  rebels — more's  the  pity — 

Without  a  boat  are  all  afloat, 
And  ranged  before  the  city. 

"The  motley  crew,  in  vessels  new, 
With  Satan  for  their  guide,  sir, 

Packed  up    in  bags  or  wooden  kegs, 
Come  driving  down  the  tide,  sir. 

"Therefore  prepare  for  bloody  war, 
These  kegs  must  all  be  routed, 

Or  surely  we  despised  shall  be, 

And  British  courage  doubted." 

The  royal  band  now  ready  stand, 
All  ranged  in  dread  array,  sir, 

With  stomach  stout  to  see  it  out, 
And  make  a  bloody  day,  sir. 

The  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  small  arms  make  a  rattle ; 

Since  wars  began,  I'm  sure  no  man 
E'er  saw  so  strange  a  battle. 

The  rebel  dales,  the  rebel  vales, 
With  rebel  trees  surrounded, 

The  distant  woods,  the  hills  and  floods, 
With  rebel  echoes  sounded. 


[176] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


The  fish  below  swam  to  and  fro, 
Attacked  from  every  quarter; 

"Why  sure,"  thought  they,  "the  devil's  to  pay 
'Mongst  folks  above  the  water." 

The  kegs,  'tis  said,  though  strongly  made 
Of  rebel  staves  and  hoops,  sir, 

Could  not  oppose  their  powerful  foes, 
The  conquering  British  troops,  sir. 

From  morn  to  night,  these  men  of  might 
Displayed    amazing    courage ; 

And,  when  the  sun  was  fairly  down, 
Retired  to  sup  their  porridge. 

A  hundred  men  with  each  a  pen, 

Or  more,  upon  my  word,  sir, 
It  is  most  true,  would  be  too  few 

Their  valor  to  record,  sir. 

Such  feats  did  they  perform  that  day 
Against  those  wicked  kegs,  sir, 

That  years  to  come,  if  they  get  home, 

They'll  make  their  boasts  and  brags,  sir. 

Francis  Hopkinson. 


FANCIES  AT  NAVESINK. 

From  Leaves  of  Grass  by  permission  of  Horace  Traubel: 
copyright  1891 

HAD  I  THE  CHOICE. 

Had  I  the  choice  to  tally  greatest  bards, 

To  limn  their  portraits,  stately,  beautiful,  and  emulate  at  will, 

Homer  with  all  his  wars  and  warriors — Hector,   Achilles,  Ajax, — 

Or  Shakespeare's  woe-entangled  Hamlet,  Lear,  Othello — Tenny 
son's  fair  ladies — 

Metre  or  wit  the  best,  or  choice  conceit  to  wield  in  perfect 
rhyme,  delight  of  singers; 

These,  these,  O  sea,  all  these  I'd  gladly  barter, 

Would  you  the  undulation  of  one  wave,  its  trick  to  me  transfer, 

Or  breathe  one  breath  of  yours  upon  my  verse, 

And  leave  its  odor  there. 

[177] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


PROUDLY  THE    FLOOD  COMES   IN. 

Proudly  the  flood  comes  in,  shouting,  foaming,  advancing, 

Long  it  holds  at  the  high,  with  bosom  broad  outswelling, 

All  throbs,  dilates — the  farms,  woods,  streets  of    cities-workmen 

at  work, 
Mainsails,  topsails,  jibs,  appear  in  the  offing — streamers'  pennants 

of  smoke— and  under  the  forenoon  sun, 
Freighted  with  human  lives,  gaily  the  outward  bound,  gaily  the 

inward  bound, 
Flaunting  from  many  a  spar  the  flag  I  love. 

Walt  Whitman. 


NEVERSINK. 

These  hills,  the  pride  of  all  the  coast, 

To  mighty  distance  seen, 
With  aspect  bold  and  rugged  brow, 

That  shade  the  neighboring  main; 
These  heights,  for  solitude  designed, 

This  rude,   resounding  shore, 
These  vales  impervious  to  the  wind, 
Tall  oaks,  that  to  the  tempest  bend, 

Half  Druid,  I  adore. 

From  distant  lands  a  thousand  sails, 

Your  hazy  summits  greet, 
You  saw  the  angry  Briton  come, 

You  saw  him,  last,  retreat! 
With  towering  crest,  you  first  appear 

The  news  of  land  to  tell; 
To  him  that  comes,  fresh  joys  impart, 
To  him  that  goes,  a  heavy  heart, 

The  lover's  long  farewell. 

'Tis  yours  to  see  the  sailor  bold, 

Of    persevering    mind, 
To  see  him  rove  in  search  of  care, 

And  leave  true  bliss  behind: 
To  see  him  spread  his  flowing  sails 

To  trace  a  tiresome  road; 
By  wintry  seas  and  tempests  chased, 
To  see  him  o'er  the  ocean  haste, 

A  comfortless  abode! 


[178] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Your  thousand  springs  of  waters  blue 

What  luxury  to  sip, 
As  from  the  mountain's  breast  they  flow 

To  moisten  Flora's  lip! 
In  vast  retirements  herd  the  deer, 

Where  forests  round  them  rise, 
Dark  groves,  their  tops  in  ether  lost, 
That,  haunted  still  by  Huddy's  ghost, 

The  trembling  rustic  flies. 

Proud  heights!     with  pains  so  often  seen 

(With  joy  beheld  once  more), 
On  your  firm  base  I  take  my  stand, 

Tenacious   of   the   shore; 
Let  those  who  pant  for  wealth  or  fame 

Pursue  the  watery  road; 
Soft  sleep  and  ease,  blest  days  and  nights, 
And  health,  attend  these  favorite  heights, 

Retirement's    blest    abode! 

Philip  Freneau. 


Freneau  had  been  a  sea-captain  for  some  years  and  this  poem  may 
be  regarded  as  his  farewell  to  the  ocean.  The  Navesink  hills  are  in  Mon- 
mouth  county  and  form  the  southern  edge  of  Lower  New  York  bay 
through  which  all  sea-going  vessels  pass  on  entering  or  leaving  New  York 
harbor.  Navesink  is  an  Indian  word  and  means  good-fishing-place.  The 
New  Jersey  coast  is  generally  low,  but  here  Mount  Mitchel  rises  to  a  height 
of  282  feet  and  is  the  pride  of  all  the  coast. 


THE    COASTERS. 

From  Songs  of  Sea  and  Sail,  by  permission  of  the  author 
copyright,  1898. 

Overloaded,  undermanned, 

Trusting  to  a  lee, 
Playing  I -spy  with  the  land, 

Jockeying  the  sea — 
That's  the  way  the  Coaster  goes, 

Through  calm  and  hurricane: 
Everywhere  the  tide  -flows, 
Everywhere  the  wind  blows, 

From  Mexico   to  Maine. 


[179] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


O  East  and  West!     O  North  and  South! 

We  ply  along  the  shore, 
From  famous  Fundy's  foggy  mouth, 

From  voes  of  Labrador; 
Through  pass  and  strait,  on  sound  and  sea, 

From  port  to  port  we  stand — 
The  rocks  of  Race  fade  on  our  lee, 

We  hail  the  Rio  Grande. 
Our  sails  are  never  lost  to  sight; 

On  every  gulf  and  bay 
They  gleam,  in  winter  wind-cloud  white, 

In  summer  rain-cloud  gray. 

We  hold  the  coast  with  slippery  grip; 

We  dare  from  cape  to  cape: 
Our  leaden  fingers  feel  the  dip 

And  trace  the  channel's  shape. 
We  sail  or  bide  as  serves  the  tide; 

Inshore  we  cheat  its  flow, 
And  side  by  side  at  anchor  ride 

When  stormy  head-winds  blow. 
We  are  the  offspring  of  the  shoal, 

The  hucksters  of  the  sea; 
From  customs  theft  and  pilot  toll 

Thank  God  that  we  are  free. 

Legging  on  and  off  the  beach, 

Drifting  up  the  strait, 
Fluking  down  the  river  reach, 

Towing   through   the  gate — 
That's  the  way  the  Coaster  goes, 

Flirting  with  the  gale : 
Everywhere  the  tide  flows, 
Everywhere  the  wind  blows, 

From  York  to  Beavertail. 


Here  and  there  to  get  a  load, 

Freighting  anything ; 
Running  off  with  spanker  stowed 

Loafing  wing-a-wing — 
That's  the  way  the  Coaster  goes, 

Chumming  with  the  land  : 
Everywhere  the  tide  flows, 
Everywhere  the  wind  blows, 

From  Ray  to  Rio  Grande. 


[180] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


We  split  the  swell  where  rings  the  bell 

On  many  a  shallow's  edge, 
We  take  our  flight  past  many  a  light 

That  guards  the  deadly  ledge ; 
We  greet  Montauk  across  the  foam, 

We  work  the  Vineyard  Sound, 
The  Diamond  sees  us  running  home, 

The  Georges  outward  bound; 
Absecom  hears  our  canvas  beat 

When  tacked  off  Brigantine; 
We  raise  the  Gulls  with  lifted  sheet, 

Pass  wing-and-wing  between. 

Off  Monomoy  we  fight  the  gale, 

We  drift  off  Sandy  Key; 
The  watch  of  Fenwick  sees  our  sail 

Scud  for  Henlopen's  lee. 
With  decks  awash  and  canvas  torn 

We  wallow  up  the  Stream; 
We  drag  dismasted,  cargo  borne, 

And  fright  the  ships  of  steam. 
Death  grips  us  with  his  frosty  hands 

In  calm  and  hurricane; 
We  spill  our  bones  on  fifty  sands 

From  Mexico  to  Maine. 

Cargo  reef  in  main  and  fore, 

Manned  by  half  a  crew, 
Romping  up  the  weather  shore, 

Edging  down  the  Blue — 
That's  the  way  the  Coaster  goes, 

Scouting  with  the  lead  : 
Everywhere  the  tide  flows, 
Everywhere  the  wind  blows, 

From  Cruz  to  Quoddy  Head. 

Thomas  Fleming  Day. 


ON  BARNEGAT  SHOALS. 

The  wind  blows  east  on  Barnegat, 

The  wind  blows  east  on  Squan, 
As  homeward  bound  sails  the  clipper  ship, 
As  homeward  bound  from  a  Madras  trip, 
She  bowls  merrily  on. 


[181] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  wind  blows  east  on  Barnegat, 
The  wind  blows  east  on  Squan, 

After  nine  days  of  dead  reckoning 

Tall  Barnegat  light  is  beckoning, 
She  speeds  joyously  on. 

The  wind  blows  east  on  Barnegat, 

The  wind  blows  east  on  Squan, 
The  driving  mists  hide  the  light  from  view, 
As  swift  toward  death,  with  her  hapless  crew, 
She  sweeps  heedlessly  on. 

The  wind  blows  east  on  Barnegat, 

The  wind  blows  east  on  Squan, 
The  breakers  crash  on  the  treach'rous  shoals: 
Pray,  women,  for  your  loved  ones'  souls, 
Into  the  breakers  gone. 

The  wind  blows  east  on  Barnegat, 

The  wind  blows  east  on  Squan, 
The  winding  mists  blot  the  heavens  out, 
The  clinging  fogs  shut  the  breakers  out, 
And  ship  and  souls  are  gone. 

The  wind  blows  west  on  Barnegat, 
The  wind  blows  west  on  Squan, 
The  bright  sun  glints  on  the  heaving  sea, 
The  spray  leaps  up  from  the  bar  in  glee, 
But  ship  and  souls  are  gone. 

William  H.  Fischer. 


PATROLING  BARNEGAT. 

From  Leaves  of  Grass  by  permission  of  Horace  Traubel; 
copyright,    1891. 

Wild,  wild  the  storm,  and  the  sea  high  running, 
Steady  the  roar  of  the  gale,  with  incessant  undertone  muttering, 
Shouts  of  demoniac  laughter  fitfully  piercing  and  pealing, 
Waves,  air,  midnight,  their  savagest  trinity  lashing, 
Out  in  the  shadows  there  milk-white  combs  careering, 
On  beachy  slush  and  sand  sprits  of  snow  fierce  slanting, 
Where  through  the  murk  the  easterly  death-wind  breasting, 
Through  cutting  swirl  and  spray  watchful  and  firm  advancing, 

[182] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


(That  in  the  distance!  is  that  a  wreck?  is  the  red  signal  flaring?) 
Slush  and  sand  of  the  beach  tireless  till  daylight  wending, 
Steadily,  slowly,  through  hoarse  roar  never  remitting, 
Along  the  midnight  edge  by  those  milk-white  combs  careering, 
A  group  of  dim,  weird  forms,  struggling,  the  night  confronting, 
That  savage  trinity  warily  watching. 

Walt  Whitman. 


THE  MEN  OF  THE  JERSEY  SHORE. 

When  th'  angel  bos'n  pipes  aloft  from  land  an'  sea  their  dead 
From  ev'ry  corner  of  the  earth  they'll  come  with  stalwart  tread; 
There  ain't  so  many  of  'em,  but  they've  scattered  far  and  wide, 
You  couldn't  git  beyond  their  reach  no  matter  how  you  tried; — 

Some  are  in  Alaska,  climbing  Skaguay  trail; 

Some,  south  of  Van  Diemen's  Land,  chase  the blubb'ry  whale; 

Some,  in  far  Samoa,  watch  the  surf  an'  sand  gleam  white; 

Some  they  fell  in  Cuba's  isle,   a-fightin'   Freedom's  fight: — 

Everywhere  you'll  find  'em,  the  wide  world  is  their  beat, 

For  they  were  born  on  the  Jersey  shore  with  the  tickle  in  their  feet. 

It's  good  two  hundred  year  an'  more  since  they  first  started  forth 
To  cover  all  this  globe  of  ourn,  west,  east,  an'  south,  an'  north; 
Not  one  of  'em  has  crawfished  when  once  he's  set  his  face, 
For  if  he  died  along  the  way,  his  son  stepped  in  his  place. 

Some  they  hail  from  Manasquan,  an'  some  from  old  Cape 

May, 

Some  look  back  to  Navesink  an'  some  to  Barnegat  Bay, 
Manahawkin,  Little  Egg,  Absecon,  Tuckahoe, — 
But  their  white  sails  dot  the  blue  seas  where'er  the  free 
winds  blow. 

They  knew  Sir  Peter  Warren  an'  they  foller'd  in  his  train; 
They  took  a  hand  when  the  Buccaneers  played  hell  with  th' 

Spanish  Main; 

They  licked  the  corsairs  of  Algiers,  scairt  into  fits  the  Dey ; 
An'  they  went  down  with  the  Essex  in  Valparaiso  Bay — 

Some  they  fou't  with  Washin'ton  in  Stirlin's    Jersey  Line; 

Some  with  Scott  in  Mexico  jest  thought  that  scrimmage  fine; 

Some  helped  Grant  at  Vicksburg,  marched  with  Sherman  to 
the  sea; 

Some  at  Appomattox  saw  the  end  of  Gin'ral  Lee. 

[183] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  sons  are  like  the  gran'sires,  a  most  adventurous  gang — 
The  most  of  'em  are  born  to  drown,  but  nary  a  one  to  hang; 
They  don't  talk  much  except  in  fun,  they're  grim  yet  jolly,  too; 
An'  anything  that  can't  be  done,  's  what  they  set  out  to  do — 

Some  they  preach  the  gospel  to  the  heathen  over  sea ; 

Some  are  trainin'  Krags  upon  the  "innercent  Chinee;" 

Some  are  hikin'  through  Luzon  a  chasin'  rebel  bands; 

Some  patrol  through  night  an'  storm  along  the  Jersey  sands— 

Everywhere  you'll  -find  'em,  the  wide  world  is  their  beat, 

For  they  were  born  on  the  Jersey  shore,  with  the  tickle  in  their  feet. 

William  H.  Fischer. 


Sir  Peter  Warren,  a  commodore  and  afterward  an  admiral  of  the 
British  navy,  assisted  with  the  English  fleet  in  the  capture  of  Louisburg 
from  the  French  in  1745,  and  as  a  mark  of  honor  was  presented  by  the 
city  of  New  York  with  a  farm  of  three  hundred  acres  on  Manhattan 
Island. 


TO    THE    DOG    SANCHO. 

An  incident  of  the  Pine  Barrens,  Monmouth  County,  N.  J.,  1778. 

The  world,  my  dear  Sancho,  is  full  of  distress, 
And  you  have  your  share,  I  allow  and  confess; 
For  twice  with  a  musket  and  now  a  cutteau — 
You  had  nearly  gone  off  to  dog-heaven  below. 

Was  this  your  reward,  to  be  slashed,  to  be  cut, 
For  defending  at  midnight  the  door  of  a  hut? 
You  had  little  to  fight  for,  had  little  to  win, 
Yet  you  boldly  held  out,  till  the  robbers  broke  in. 

The  blade  which  was  meant  the  bold  robber  to  face, 

To  guard  a  fair  lady,  or  serve  in  the  chase, 

Was  drenched  in  the  blood  of  an  innocent  cur, 

Who  said  in  dog  language,  "What  want  you,  good  sir?" 

Poor  fellow,  I  pity  your  pitiful  case! 

In  fact  they  have  ruined  the  round  of  your  face ; 

And  die  when  you  will,  be  it  early  or  late, 

You  will  go  to  your  grave  with  a  scar  on  your  pate. 


If  ever  a  dog  be  permitted  to  pass 

Where  folks  I  could  mention  have  fixed  on  a  place 


[184] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


(But  which,  I  suspect,  they  will  hardly  attain 
While  rights  of  pre-emption  in  Satan  remain) , 

Good  Sancho  had  merit  to  put  in  his  plea 
And  claim  with  the  claimants  a  portion  in  fee, 
On  the  ground  that  in  life  he  was  one  of  the  few 
Who,  in  watching  and  barking,  were  trusty  and  true. 

To  warn  us  of  danger,  he  ventured  his  beef, 
And  in  his  own  lingo  cried-   "Robber  and  Thief!" 
So  now  in  return  for  the  good  he  has  done, 
For  the  vigils  he  kept,  and  the  battle  he  won, 

I'll  give  him  a  verse  with  the  great  of  his  age, 
And  if  he  quite  dies,  he  must  die  in  my  page; 
And  long  may  he  live  in  despite  of  the  mob 
And  the  fools  who  his  master,  a  poet,  would  rob! 

Wherever  I  take  up  my  .evening  retreat, 
Dear  Sancho,  I'll  have  you  to  lie  at  my  feet; 
And  whether  at  home  or  in  regions  remote, 
For  a  bed,  I'll  allot  you  the  skirt  of  a  coat. 

With  my  dog  at  my  feet,  and  my  gun  at  my  head, 
I  am  equally  safe  in  a  fort  or  a  shed; 
From  a  snap  of  his  teeth  and  the  shot  of  a  gun, 
Thrice  happy  the  thief  that  is  able  to  run! 

Philip  Freneau, 


MONMOUTH  TEN  YEARS  AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

'Tis  good  ten  years  since  Mercer  fell, 

Borne  down  at  Princeton's  fight; 
'Tis  good  ten  years  since  hill  and  dell 

With  battle  were  alight; 
The  Hessians  have  gone  back  to  smoke 

Their  long  Dutch  pipes  at  home; 
The  sword  of  war  is  bent  and  broke, 

And  peaceful  days  have  come. 

Earl  Moira,  on  his  Irish  land, 

Forgets  how  Rawdon  fought, 
And  Clinton  dares  not  take  a  stand 

To  tell  the  deeds  he  wrought. 


[185] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Old  seventy-six  has  glided  by, 

And  seventy-eight  gone  on, 
And  under  freedom's  happy  sky 

We  till  the  fields  we  won. 

The  harvest  waves  on  Monmouth  ground, 

But  I  have  seen  the  day 
A  bloodier  harvest  might  be  found 

Stretched  out  in  grim  array; 
When  patriot  men  and  hireling  men 

Lay  quiet  side  by  side, 
With  ghastly  wounds  by  five  and  ten, 

To  tell  how  each  had  died. 

Oh,  friends!  it  was  a  bitter  day 

As  e'er  in  summer  came 
To  drive  our  cooling  breeze  away, 

And  stir  our  breath  to  flame. 
Beneath  our  light  and  scanty  dress 

We  bowed  as  it  were  steel — 
The  very  sand  like  burning  brass 

Seemed  all  the  day  to  feel. 

The  water  springs  were  parched  and  dry,. 

And  dry  the  meadow  greens; 
The  water  that  we  carried  by 

Grew  hot  in  our  canteens. 
Yet  well  we  bore  the  scorching  day 

And  bore  the  battle's  brunt, 
And  not  a  soldier  slunk  away, 

While  brave  men  led  our  front. 

But  once  we  trembled — when  we  stood 

Beneath  the  cannon's  beat, 
The  foe  rolled  onward  like  a  flood, 

And  Lee  was  in  retreat. 
But  Burr  dashed  in  beneath  the  shot, 

And  Washington  came  on 
And  bade  our  column  waver  not, 

For  yet  the  day  was  won. 

Oh,  friends,  ye've  seen  the  good  old  man,, 

Whose  glory  was  our  pride, 
Borne  proudly  onward  in  the  van, 

With  triumph  at  his  side. 


[186] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


But  nobler  looked  he  on  that  day, 

And  prouder  was  his  face, 
As  there  he  bid  us  wash  away 

In  victory   our   disgrace. 

Lee  lives,  a  sad  and  broken  man, 

Because  he  dared,  that  day, 
To  speak  hard  words  to  Washington 

As  well,  dear  friends,  he  may: 
For  sad  defeat  had  rested  long 

Upon  old  Monmouth's  name, 
Had  Washington  not  curbed  his  wrong 

And  showed  us  all  our  shame. 

We  pressed  them  backward,  foot  by  foot, 

Still  fighting  like  brave  men, 
Till  long  ere  sunset  we  had  put 

The  foe  to  rout  again; 
But  warily  did  Clinton  draw 

His  broken  troops  away, 
And  with  two  armies  at  nightfall 

Upon  the  field  we  lay. 

The  evening  wind  came  fresh  and  cool 

Over  the  clover  farms, 
As  all  that  night,  so  worn  and  dull, 

We  rested  on  our  arms. 
The  fires  were  bright  in  Clinton's  camp,. 

But  long  ere  morning's  dawn 
His  baggage  train  was  on  the  tramp 

And  all  his  host  was  gone. 

I  ween  he  thinks  of  Monmouth  ground 

With  less  delight  than  we, 
And  seldom  tells  the  check  he  found, 

To  those  beyond  the  sea. 
But  never  may  the  cannon  sweep 

Where  sweeps  the  golden  grain 
And  ne'er  again  an  army  sleep 

Upon  old  Monmouth's  plain. 

Henry  Morford. 


GLOUCESTER  SPRING. 

A  Morning  Invitation  to  Two  Young  Ladies. 
Sequestered  from  the  city's  noise, 
Its  tumults  and  fantastic  joys, 

[187} 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Fair  nymphs  and  swains  retire 
Where  Delaware's  far-rolling  tide 
Majestic  winds  by  Gloucester's  side, 

Whose  shades  new  joys  inspire. 

There  innocence  and  mirth  resort, 

And  round  its  banks  the  graces  sport — 

Young  love,  delight,  and  joy; 
Bright  blushing  health  unlocks  his  springs, 
Each  grove  around  its  fragrance  flings 

With  sweets  that  never  cloy. 

Soon  as  out  from  the  orient  main 
The  sun  ascends  the  etherial  plain, 

Be-pearling   every   lawn; 
Wild  warbling  wood-notes  float  around, 
While  Echo  doubles  every  sound 

To  hail  the  gladsome  dawn. 

Now  Celia  with  thy  Chloe,  rise; 
Ye  fair,  unlock  those  radiant  eyes 

Nor  more  the  pillow  press; 
Now  rise  and  taste  the  vernal  bliss; 
Romantic  dreams  and  sleep  dismiss; 

New  joys  your  sense  shall  bless. 

Whether  along  the  velvet  green 
Adorning  all  the  sylvan  scene, 

The  fair  incline  to  stray 
Where  lofty  trees  o'ershade  the  wave 
And  Zephyrs  leave  their  secret  cave 

Along  the  streams  to  play; 

There  lovely  views  the  river  crown, — 
Woods,  meadows,  ships,  yon  spiry  town 

Where  wit  and  beauty  reign — 
Where  Chloe's  and  fair  Celia's  charms 
Fill  many  a  youth  with  love's  alarms, 

Sweet  pleasure  mixed  with  pain. 

Or  whether  o'er  the  fields  we  trip 
At  yon  salubrious  fount  to  sip, 
Immured  in  darksome  shade, 


[188] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Around  whose  sides  magnolias  bloom 
Whose  silver  blossoms  deck  the  gloom 
And  scent  the  spicy  glade; 

These  are  Aurora's  rural  sweets — 

Fresh  dew-drops,  flowers  and  green  retreats, 

Perfume,  and  balmy   air. 
Rise  then  and  greet  the  new-born  day! 
Rise,  fair  ones,  join  the  linnet's  lay, 

And   Nature's   pleasures   share! 

So  shall  gay  health  your  cheeks  adorn 
With  blushes  sweeter  than  the  morn 

And  fresh  as  early  day; 
And  then  that  Gloucester  is  the  place 
To  add  to  beauty's  brightest  grace, 

The  world  around  shall  say. 

Nathaniel  Evans. 


HANNAH    LADD'S    PASS. 

This  permit  to  pass  through  the  picket  lines  of  the  American  army 
was  issued  to  Mrs.  Ladd  in  Gloucester  county  on  July  1,  1777,  by  John 
Cooper,  counselor  and  patriot  statesman. 


The  bearer,  Mistress  Hannah  Ladd, 
Neither  very  good  nor  bad, 
Aged,  as  appears  to  me, 
Not  far  short  of  thirty  three, 
With  stockings  tied  below  the  knee, 
Of  complexion  rather  fair, 
Flaxen  coloured  is  her  hair, 
Her  stature  neither  great  nor  small, 
Her  eye  perhaps  you'd  hazel  call, 
A  traveller  from  here  to  there, 
And  may  be  let  go  anywhere ; 
Has  permission  with  her  man, 

Her  horses  and  her  carriage, 
To  travel  all  New  Jersey  o'er, 

If  well  she  pays  her  ferriage. 


John  Cooper. 

[189] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


BALLAD    OF    THE    BRITISH    SHIP    DELIGHT. 

'Twas  on  a  day  that  long  has  passed, 

A  hundred  years  ago  or  more, 
With  England's  flag  a-top  the  mast, 

A  gallant  vessel  left  her  shore. 

No  peaceful  trader  on  the  seas 

Was  she ;  her  errand  was  to  fight ; 
Her  cargo,  soldiers  armed  for  war, 

The  British  privateer,  Delight. 

Across  the  sea  her  prow  is  set, 

Nor  winds  nor  waves  her  course  delay, 
Till,  borne  upon  the  morning  tide, 

She  floats  in  triumph  up  the  Bay. 

The  quiet  village  slept  in  peace; 

Unwatching  and  unwarned,  they  thought; 
And  here  all  undefended  lay 

The  harbor  which  their  Captain  sought. 

Not  so;  they  kept  a  constant  watch, 

They  knew  the  threatening  danger  well, 

And  from  the  church  tower,  loud  and  clear, 
Rang  out  the  clangor  of  the  bell. 

They  had  no  army  to  defend 

Their  homes  and  loved  ones  from  the  foe; 
No  forts,  no  cannon,  to  protect, — 

But  yield  without  a  contest?     No! 

Untried,  'tis  true,  but  not  afraid, 

For  not  one  coward  heart  was  there; 

They  knew  that  God  and  right  were  theirs, 
And  they  were  strong  to  do  and  dare. 

Their  need  was  great,  but  great  their  faith; 

One  power,  one  will  inspired  the  whole; 
And  all  were  soldiers, — each  possessed 

His  musket  and  his  dauntless  soul. 

On  swept  the  ship;  from  crowded  deck 

"King  George  and  England"  came  the  cry; 

[190] 


Our  sturdy  yeomen  on  the  bank 

"For  God  and  Freedom"  made  reply. 

Close  to  the  land  the  vessel  crept; 

The  order  came  to  swing  her  'round, 
And  bring  her  guns  to  bear  on  shore ; 

Too  late!     too  late!     the  ship's  a-ground! 

All  sails  were  set;  aft  rushed  the  men; 

"Aft  with  the  guns!"  the  Captain  roared; 
In  vain  they  strove  to  move  the  ship; 

They  heaved  the  cannon  overboard. 

"Surrender!"  cried  the  minute-men; 

"We  do"  replied  the  helpless  crew; 
The  luckless  Captain  struck  his  flag; 

Naught  else  remained  for  him  to  do. 


The  children  of  those  earnest  men 

Who  made  their  stand  for  liberty 
And  those  whose  fathers  served  their  king, 

To-day  clasp  hands  across  the  sea. 

This  day  which  Freedom  claims  her  own, 

Our  glorious   Nation's  natal   day, 
We  place  on  consecrated  ground 

This  cannon  found  in  yonder  Bay. 

Here  where  it  speaks  no  more  of  war, 

In  peace  and  silence  it  shall  rest ; 
And  in  this  mouth  that  belched  forth  death 

The  timid  thrush  may  build  her  nest. 

Lucy  Weeks  Trimble. 


This  ballad  was  read  at  Ocean  City,  N.  J.,  on  July  4,  1906,  at  the 
unveiling  of  a  cannon  which  had  been  presented  to  the  New  Jersey 
Society,  Daughters  of  the  Revolution,  by  Messrs.  Ellis  and  James  Marshall, 
which  cannon  had  been  a  part  of  the  equipment  of  the  British  privateer 
Delight. 


THE    OLD    STONE    CHURCH. 

Fairton,  Cumberland  County,  N.  J. 
1780—1880. 

Rev.  Ethan  Osborn  was  installed  pastor  of  the  Old  Stone  Church 
at  Fairton  on  December  3,  1789.     He  was  at  that  time  thirty-one  years 

[191] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


old;  he  preached  there  for  fifty-five  years,  and  was  at  the  time  of  his 
death  in  the  one  hundredth  year  of  his  age. 

The  stone  building,  completed  in  1780,  was  used  for  worship  until 
1850  when  a  new  edifice  was  erected  near  by. 


The  Old  Stone  Church,  time-worn  and  gray, 
Survives,  though  since  its  natal  day 
A  hundred  years  have  passed  away, — 

Still  stands,  while  those  who  planned  and  reared 
Its  walls  have  long  since  disappeared, 
A  sacred  shrine,  beloved,  revered, 

With  hallowed  memories  running  o'er, 
With  visions  of  the  times  of  yore, 
Dear  to  each  heart  forevermore. 

And  with  them  comes  the  kindly  face 
Of  one,  whose  life  we  fondly  trace — 
A  Pastor,  full  of  heavenly  grace, 

A  youth  when,  in  those  distant  days, 

He  led  the  flock  in  Wisdom's  ways, 

With  words  of  love  and  prayer  and  praise 

And  still,  through  half  a  century 
Of  sweet  devotion,  lived  to  be 
A  Father  in  God's  ministry ; 

Till  with  the  weight  of  years  oppressed, 
H  is  mission  closed,  accepted,  blest, 
H  e  tranquilly  lay  down  to  rest. 

And  re-united  now  with  those 

Whom,  gathered  here,  these  graves  enclose, 

The  Pastor  and  his  flock  repose. 

But  the  archangel's  trump  shall  sound, 
And  God  himself  rend  every  mound 
Within  this  silent  burial  ground. 

Then  shall  the  dead  awake,  and  be 
Redeemed  from  death's  deep  mystery 
To  life  and  immortality. 


[192] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


The  fathers  sleep;  but  what  they  wrought, 
The  faith  and  love  their  lives  have  taught, 
Survive  the  changes  time  has  brought. 

And  cherished  with   their  memory, 
Prized  as   a  precious   legacy, 
The  Old  Stone  Church  shall  ever  be. 

Francis  De  Haes  Janvier. 


This  poem  was  read  in  September,  1880,  at  the  bi-centennial  cele 
bration  of  the  Old  Stone  Church  of  Fairfield,  N.  J. 

Rev.  Ethan  Osborn,  the  faithful  pastor  described  in  the  poem, 
was  born  Aug.  21,  1758.  He  graduated  at  Dartmouth  college,  enlisted 
in  the  Continental  Army  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  was  under  the  im 
mediate  direction  of  Gen.  Washington  during  the  retreat  across  the  Jer- 
sies  in  the  times  that  tried  men's  souls.  He  was  installed  pastor  of  the 
Old  Stone  Church,  December  3,  1789,  and  resigned  in  1844,  after  a  pastor 
ate  of  fifty-four  years.  He  died  May  1,  1858,  in  the  one-hundredth  year 
of  his  age. 


THE  COUNTRY  PRINTER. 

Beside  a  stream  that  never  yet  ran  dry 

There  stands  a  town,  not  high  advanced  in  fame ; 
Tho  few  its  buildings  raised  to  please  the  eye, 

Still  this  proud  title  it  may  fairly  claim; 

A  tavern  (its  first  requisite)  is  there, 

A  mill,  a  black-smith's  shop,  a  place  of  prayer. 

Nay,  more — a  little  market-house  is  seen 

And  iron  hooks,  where  beef  was  never  hung, 
Nor  pork,  nor  bacon,  poultry  fat  or  lean, 

Pig's  head,  or  sausage  link,  or  bullock's  tongue: 

Look  when  you  will,  you  see  the  vacant  bench, 
No  butcher  seated  there,  no  country  wench. 

Great  aims  were  his,  who  first  contrived  this  town; 

A  market  he  would  have — but  humbled  now, 
Sighing,  we  see  its  fabric  mouldering  down, 

That  only  serves,  at  night,  to  pen  the  cow: 

And  hence,  by  way  of  jest,  it  may  be  said 
That  beef  is  there,  tho'  never  beef  that's  dead. 

[193] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Abreast  the  inn,  a  tree  before  the  door, 

A  Printing  Office  lifts  its  humble  head 
Where  busy  Type  old  journals  doth  explore 

For  news  that  is  thro'  all  the  village  read; 

Who,  year  from  year  (so  cruel  is  his  lot), 
Is  author,  pressman,  devil — and  what  not? 

Fame  says  he  is  an  odd  and  curious  wight, 

Fond  to  distraction  of  his  native  place ; 
In  sense,  not  very  dull,  nor  very  bright, 

Yet  shows  some  marks  of  humor  in  his  face, 

One  who  can  pen  an  anecdote,  complete, 

Or  plague  the  parson  with  the  mackled  sheet. 

Three  times  a  week,  by  nimble  geldings  drawn, 

A  stage  arrives;  but  scarcely  deigns  to  stop 
Unless  the  driver,  far  in  liquor  gone, 

Has  made  some  business  for  the  blacksmith  shop: 

Here  comes  this  printer's  harvest  time  of  news, 
Welcome  alike  from  Christians,  Turks  or  Jews. 

Each  passenger  he  eyes  with  curious  glance, 

And,  if  his  phiz  be  mark'd  of  courteous  kind, 
To  conversation,  straight,  he  makes  advance, 

Hoping,  from  thence,  some  paragraph  to  find, 

Some  odd  adventure,  something  new  and  rare, 
To  set  the  town  agape,  and  make  it  stare. 

All  is  not  truth  ('tis  said)  that  travellers  tell — 

So  much  the  better  for  this  man  of  news ; 
For  hence,  the  country  round,  that  knows  him  well, 
Will,  if  he  prints  some  lies,  his  lies  excuse. 

Earthquakes  and  battles;  shipwrecks,  myriads  slain 
If  false  or  true — alike  to  him  are  gain. 

But  if  this  motley  tribe  say  nothing  new, 

Then  many  a  lazy,  longing  look  is  cast 
To  watch  the  weary  post-boy  travelling  through, 
On  horse's  rump  his  budget  buckled  fast; 

With  letters,  safe  in  leathern  prison  pent, 
And,  wet  from  press,  full  many  a  packet  sent. 

Not  Argus  with  his  fifty  pair  of  eyes 

Looked  sharper  for  his  prey  than  honest  Type 

Explores  each  package  of  alluring  size, 

Prepared  to  seize  them  with  a  nimble  gripe, 

[194] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Did  not  the  post-boy  watch  his  goods,  and  swear 
That  village  Type  shall  only  have  his  share. 

Ask  you  what  matter  fills  his  various  page? 
A  mere  farrago  'tis  of  mingled  things ; 
Whate'er  is  done  on  Madam  Terra's  stage 

He  to  the  knowledge  of  his  townsmen  brings; 

One  while,  he  tells  of  Monarchs  run  away ; 
And  now,  of  witches  drowned  in  Buzzard's  Bay 

Some  miracles  he  makes,  and  some  he  steals; 

Half  Nature's  works  are  giants  in  his  eyes: 
Much,  very  much,  in  wonderment  he  deals — 

New  Hampshire  apples  grown  to  pumpkin  size, 
Pumpkins  almost  as  large  as  country  inns, 
And  ladies  bearing,  each, — three  lovely  twins 

He  births  and  deaths  with  cold  indifference  views; 

A  paragraph  from  him  is  all  they  claim — 
And  here  the  rural  squire,  amongst  the  news, 

Sees  the  fair  record  of  some  lordling's  fame, 

All  that  was  good,  minutely  brought  to  light 
All  that  was  ill, — concealed  from  vulgar  sight! 

Source  of  the  wisdom  of  the  country  round! 

Again  I  turn  to  that  poor,  lonely  shed, 
(Where  many  an  author  all  his  fame  has  found) , 

And  wretched  proofs  by  candle-light  are  read, 
Inverted  letters,  left  the  page  to  grace, 
Colons  deranged,  and  commas  out  of  place. 

Beneath  this  roof  the  Muses  chose  their  home; — 

Sad  was  their  choice,  less-bookish  ladies  say; 
Since  from  the  blessed  hour  they  deigned  to  come 
One  single  cobweb  was  not  brushed  away:— 

Fate  only  had  pronounced  this  building's  doom, 
Ne'er  to  be  vexed  with  boonder,  brush  or  broom. 

Here,  full  in  view,  the  ink-bespangled  press 

Gives  to  the  world  its  children  with  a  groan, 
Some  born  to  live  a  month — a  day — some  less ; 

Some,  why  they  live  at  all,  not  clearly  known, 

All  that  are  born  must  die — Type  well  knows  that- 
The  almanack's  his  longest-living  brat. 

[195] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Here  lie  the  types,  in  curious  order  ranged, 

Ready  alike  to  imprint  you  prose  or  verse; 
Ready  to  speak  (their  order  only  changed) 

Greek — Indian  lingo,  Dutch,  or  Highland  erse; 

These  types  have  printed  Erskine's  Gospel  Treat; 
Tom  Dursey's  songs,  and  Bunyan's  works  complete. 

But  faded  are  their  charms — their  beauty  fled! 

No  more  their  work  your  nicer  eyes  admire ; 
Hence,  from  this  press  no  worthy  stuff  is  read; 

But  almanacks,  and  ballads  for  the  Squire, 

Dull  paragraphs  in  homely  language  dress'd, 
The  peddler's  bill,  and  sermons  by  request. 

Here,  doomed  the  fortune  of  the  press  to  try, 

From  year  to  year  poor  Type  his  trade  pursues — 
With  anxious  care  and  circumspective  eye 

He  dresses  out  his  little  sheet  of  news; 

Now  laughing  at  the  world,  now  looking  grave, 
At  once  the  Muse's  midwife — and  her  slave. 

In  by-past  years,  perplext  with  vast  designs, 

In  cities  fair  he  strove  to  gain  a  seat ; 
But,  wandering  to  a  wood  of  many  pines, 

In  solitude  he  found  his  best  retreat, 

When  sick  of  towns  and  sorrowful  at  heart, 
He  to  those  deserts  brought  his  favorite  art. 

Thou,  who  art  placed  in  some  more  favored  spot, 

Where  spires  ascend,  and  ships  from  every  clime 
Discharge  their  freights — despise  not  thou  the  lot 

Of  humble  Type,  who  here  has  passed  his  prime; 

At  case  and  press  has  labored  many  a  day, 
But  now,  in  years,  is  verging  to  decay. 

He  in  his  time  the  patriot  of  his  town, 

With  press  and  pen  attack'd  the  royal  side, 
Did  what  he  could  to  pull  their  Lion  down, 

Clipp'd  at  his  beard,  and  twitched  his  sacred  hide, 
Mimick'd  his  roarings,  trod  upon  his  toes, 
Pelted  young  whelps,  and  tweaked  the  old  one's  nose. 

Roused  by  his  page,  at  church  or  courthouse  read, 

From  depths  of  woods  the  willing  rustics  ran, 

Now  by  a  priest  and  now  some  deacon  led, 

With  clubs  and  spits  to  guard  the  rights  of  man 

[196] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Lads  from  the  spade,  the  pick-axe,  or  the  plough, 
Marching  afar  to  fight  Burgoyne  or  Howe. 

Where  are  they  now? — the  Village  asks  with  grief, 

What  were  their  toils,  their  conquests,  or  their  gains? — 
Perhaps  they  near  some  State-house  beg  relief, 
Perhaps  they  sleep  on  Saratoga's  plains; 

Doom'd  not  to  live,  their  country  to  reproach 

For  seven-years'  pay  transferred  to  Mammon's  coach. 

Ye  Guardians  of  your  country  and  her  laws! 

Since  to  the  pen  and  press  so  much  we  owe, 
Still  bid  them  favor  freedom's  sacred  cause; 

From  this  pure  source,  let  streams  unsullied  flow; 
Hence,  a  new  order  grows  on  reason's  plan, 
And  turns  the  fierce  barbarian  into  man. 

Child  of  the  earth,  of  rude  materials  framed, 

Man,  always  found  a  tyrant  or  a  slave, 
Fond  to  be  honored,  valued,  rich  tho  famed, 

Roves  o'er  the  earth,  and  subjugates  the  wave: 

Despots  and  kings  this  restless  race  may  share, — 
But  knowledge  only  makes  them  worth  your  care! 

Philip  Freneau. 


There  is  a  large  element  of  personal  experience  underlying  this 
lively  and  realistic  description  of  the  labors  and  trials  of  a  country  printer 
just  after  the  close  of  the  Revolutionary  war.  It  was  a  topic  on  which 
Philip  Freneau  could  write  with  minuteness  and  accuracy;  for  not  only 
had  he  been  the  editor  of  several  city  newspapers,  but  he  had  been  the 
proprietor,  editor  and  printer  of  the  New  Jersey  Chronicle,  a  newspaper 
published  at  his  own  home  in*Monmouth  county. 


REVOLUTIONARY  SCENES. 

A  century  and  more  sheds  its  dim  and  mellow  rays 
Over  Revolution  scenes  and  the  deeds  of  other  days,  ' 
But  let  us  part  the  drapery,  enter  into  memory's  halls, 
And  gaze  with  reverent  spirit  at  the  pictures  on  her  walls. 

4. 

There's  the  North  Church  steeple  with  the  lanterns  swinging  to 

and  fro, 
And  the  rider  urging  on  his  steed  upon  the  road  below: 

[197] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  hopes  and  fears  that  filled  the  soul  of  loyal  Paul  Revere 
As  he  sped  upon  his  errand  ,were  not  voiced  to  mortal  ear, 
But  as  he  passed  the  word  to  each  terror-stricken  band, 
We  can  almost  hear  him  saying:     "God  and  my  native  land!" 

There's  the  Hessian  camp  at  Trenton,  December  26th, 
The  soldiers  idling  listlessly — their  arms  in  stacks  are  fixed; 

Still  lingering  o'er  their  Christmas  feast,  without  a  single  fear, 
They  little  dream  of  anything  but  comfort  and  good  cheer. 
But  the  brave  and  gallant  leader  of  the  now  disheartened  band 
Is  already  on  the  Delaware  and  so  the  time  has  planned 

That  the  mercenary  Hessians  are  surprised  and  put  to  rout:- 
Then  throughout  the  little  army,  courage  takes  the  place 

of  doubt; 

One  thousand  of  the  enemy  yield,  with  cannon  and  with  shot, 
And  the  nation's  fate  is  settled  upon  that  very  spot. 

Another  land  and  other  scenes  now  come  at  Memory's  call; — 
Nobles  and  lords — a  regal  court;  and  grand  among  them  all, 
Plain  Benjamin  Franklin  tells  the  heirs  of  luxury  and  ease 
The  story  of  his  country's  needs — the  land  across  the  seas. 
They  bend  a  listening  ear  to  his  projects  and  his  plans 
And  the  struggling  little  colony  clasps  the  helping  hand  of  France. 

The  suffering  at  Valley  Forge,  of  the  camp  at  Morristown; 

The  traitor's   deed;   the   dark,    dark   days  before  the  victor's 

crown ; — 

All  come  before  our  vision  as  we  linger  in  the  past, 
And  the  names  of  martyred  heroes  crowd  upon  us  thick  and 

fast. 

Not  all  the  noble  men  went  forth  upon  the  battle-field; 
Some  must  remain  the  lands  to  till,  the  firesides  to  shield; 

But  when  the  Short  Hills  cannon  resounds  in  thunderous 

tones, 
The  fires  are  lit  from  hill  to  hill;  then  from  their  various 

homes, 

The  Minute  Men  like  swarms  of  bees  assemble  at  their  posts, 
And  in  a  trice  the  Morris  hills  are  safe  from  hostile  hosts. 

Another  silent  army  gave  their  husbands,  brothers,  sons, 

To  the  service  of  their  country,  when  they  went  to  man  the  guns. 

Were  there  no  heroines  in  their  ranks — no  glorious  matry- 
dom? 

Did  they  not  suffer  oftentimes  a  thousand  deaths  in  one? 

[108] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Brave  Molly  Pitcher  faltered  not  before  the  cannon's  roar; 

Ann  Halsted  donned  coat,  hat  and  gun  and  saved  her  father's 

stores ; 

Gay  Baltimoreans  celebrate  their  "Peggy  Stewart's"  day; 
The  matron  of  Elizabethtown  unbidden  went  her  way 
To  the  Council  Chamber  where  was  broached  the  question  of  the 

hour- 
Submission  to  oppression  and  to  a  hostile  power ; 

Standing  before  her  husband,  with  firm,  unflinching  heart, 
She  said:     "If  you  submit,  henceforth  our  ways  do  part." 
In  Morristown,  the  women  through  the  country  far  and  wide, 
Ceased  not  to  knit  and  spin  from  early  morn  till  eventide, 

And  many  a  weary  soldier,  when  he  felt  the  hand  of  death, 
Murmured  blessings  on  their  efforts  with  his  last  sad  parting 
breath. 

The  Revolutionary  heroes  have  joined  the  shadowy  throng, 
But  their  lineal  descendants  still  live  to  right  the  wrong, 

To  resist  the  hostile  inroads  of  a  grasping,  foreign  foe, 
To  uplift  the  fallen  statue  of  Liberty  laid  low. 

The  handful  of  brave  spirits,  as  the  years  have  passed  away, 
Has  become  a  mighty  nation,  and  beneath  its  scepter's  sway 

Dwell  in  one  common  brotherhood  all  kindreds,  tribes  and 

tongues— 
The  hordes  of  pent-up  Europe, — the  Greeks,  the  Slavs,  the 

Huns, 

The  Turk,  the  Celt,  the  Italian,  the  Spaniard, — all  have  come, 
By  thousands  and  ten  thousands  to  join  the  general  sum; 
The  Dark  Continent  and  India,  and  China,  too,  are  here 
And  each  passes  on  his  way,  with  none  .molesting,  none  to 
fear. 

Sons  of  the  Revolution!     What  is  your  duty  of  the  hour? 
Would  you  maintain  undimmed  the  prestige  and  the  power 

Of  the  heritage  your  fathers  won  in  those  dark  and  trying 

days? 

Then  rouse  up  from  your  lethargy  and  fix  your  piercing  gaze 
On  the  mercenary  throngs  upon  every  side  arrayed, 
That  would  rob  you  of  your  birthright,  and  in  the  dust  degraded 
The  principles  for  which  they  fought,  for  which  they  bled 

and  died, 

And  for  which,  in  many  a  soldier's  grave,  they  are  lying  side 
by  side! 

[199] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Let  your  Minute  Men  assemble!     Relight  your  signal  fires, 
For  the  safety  of  your  country  and  the  honor  of  your  sires! 

Let  the  lantern  be  flung  out  from  the  North  Church  tower 

again! 

Gird  on  your  rusty  armor  and  quit  yourselves  like  men! 
When  the  eagle  leaves  his  eyrie,  on  your  next  assembly  day, 
Let  him  bear  aloft  this  message  to  those  long  since  passed  away : 
That  the  dear  old  flag  still  floats  and  shall  never  cease  to 

wave       , 

O'er  a  land  where  all  are  free  and  o'er  homes  where  all  are 
brave. 

Sarah  M.  Davy. 


Dedicated  to  the  New  Jersey  Society,  Sons  of  the  American  Revo 
lution,  and  read  at  a  meeting  of  the  Society,  December,  1892. 


THE  JERSEY  BLUES. 

Brave  as  the  battle  roll  of  drum, 
Strong  as  the  surf  when  tempests  come, 
Throbbed  all  the  Jersey  hearts  of  oak 
When  war  upon  the  Jerseys  broke; 
At  streams,  by  forest  springs  filled  up, 

Deep  drinks  the  sea,  and  smites  the  shore; 
Deep  from  the  brimful  bitter  cup 

The  soil  drank  to  the  dregs  of  war. 

Then  North  or  South  the  red-coats  came 

And  South  and  North  they  fled  again; 
The  road  the  Blues  fell  back — the  same 

Way  in  pursuit  they  sped  again. 
At  last — at  last  the  land  was  free, 

And  safe  once  more  the  misty  main, 
And,  like  some  soul  to  ectasy, 

Rose  the  sweet  Sabbath  song  again. 

Clear  flow  the  streams,  which,  red  with  blood. 

Ran  through  the  battle  lines  arrayed; 
The  cross-road's  salient  long  withstood 

The  charge  above  the  church  graves  made; 
And  quiet   Quaker  villages 

Are  scenes  in  this  historic  story, 
And  many  a  field  of  tillage  is 

Also  a  field  of  strife  and  glory. 


[200] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Thus  from  the  waves  was  Jersey  raised 

A  pathway  to  the  promised  land; 
Thus  shall  she  keep  an  epic  phrased 

On  tablets  of  coagulate  sand; 
Her  many  bivouacs  were  dreams 

Of  deeds  still  told,  then  lately  done, 
And  all  her  battlefields  are  gleams 

Of  victories  for  freedom  won. 

Sons  of  those  sires!     Ye  soldiers  who 
Bound  North  and  South  in  folds  of  blue! 
Where,  Aphrodite  like,  still  laves 
The  sea-born  State  in  lapsing  waves, 
Firm  may  the  arch  of  Union  rest 
Forever  on  her  fruitful  breast; 
For  well  wrought  each  artificer 
Its  ocean-dashed  abutment  here. 

Isaac  R.  Penny  packer. 


THE  BRITISH  PRISON-SHIP. 

In  this  poem  Philip  Freneau  speaks  from  personal  knowledge 
and  experience,  for  he  had  been  a  prisoner  on  two  of  these  ships,  the 
Scorpion  and  the  Hunter. 

In  the  year  1780,  Freneau  enlisted  on  a  vessel  which  sailed  from 
Philadelphia  for  the  island  of  St.  Eustatia  in  the  West  Indies,  but  he  was 
captured  off  the  capes  of  Delaware  bay  on  May  20th.  He  was  taken  to 
New  York  and  placed  in  the  British  prison-ship  Scorpion.  Here  he  took 
sick  with  a  fever  and  was  transferred  on  June  1st  to  the  Hunter,  a  hos 
pital-ship  (so-called)  in  Wallabout  bay,  Brooklyn,  where  he  remained 
until  exchanged  July  12,  1780.  He  retired  immediately  to  his  home  at 
Mount  Pleasant,  Monmouth  county,  N.  J.,  where  while  still  suffering  from 
the  effects  of  his  imprisonment,  he  wrote  the  following  poem  which,  in 
terms  of  bitter  invective  and  fierce  denunciation,  voices  the  righteous 
indignation  of  humanity  at  the  hardships  and  cruelties  wantonly  in 
flicted  on  American  prisoners. 

Canto  I. — The  Capture. 

Assist  me,  Clio!  while  in  verse  I  tell 

The  dire  misfortunes  that  a  ship  befell, 
Which  outward  bound,  to  St.  Eustatia's  shore, 
Death  and  disaster  through  the  billows  bore. 

From  Philadelphia's  happy  port  she  came; 
(And  there  the  builder  planned  her  lofty  frame,) 
With  wonderous  skill,  and  excellence  of  art 
He  formed,  disposed,  and  ordered  every  part, 

[201] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


With  joy  beheld  the  stately  fabric  rise 
To  a  stout  bulwark  of  stupendous  size, 
'Till  launched  at  last,  capacious  of  the  freight, 
He  left  her  to  the  pilots,  and  her  fate. 

First,  from  her  depths  the  tapering  masts  ascend, 
On  whose  tall  bulk  the  transverse  yards  depend, 
By  shrouds  and  stays  secured  from  side  to  side 
Trees  grew  on  trees,  suspended  o'er  the  tide: 
Firm  to  the  yards  extended,  broad  and  vast, 
They  hung  the  sails,  susceptive  of  the  blast; 
Far  o'er  the  prow  the  lengthy  bowsprit  lay, 
Supporting  on  the  extreme  the  taut  fore-stay, 
Twice  ten  six-pounders,  at  their  port  holes  placed 
And  ranged  in  rows,  stood  hostile  in  the  waist: 
Thus  all  prepared,  impatient  for  the  seas, 
She  left  her  station  with  an  adverse  breeze, 
This  her  first  outset  from  her  native  shore, 
To  seas  a  stranger,  and  untried  before. 

From  the  fine  radiance  that  his  glories  spread, 
Ere  from  the  east  gay  Phoebus  lifts  his  head, 
From  the  bright  morn,  a  kindred  name  she  won, 
Aurora  called,  the  daughter  of  the  sun, 
Whose  form,  projecting,  the  broad  prow  displays, 
Far  glittering  o'er  the  wave,  a  mimic  blaze. 

The  gay  ship  now,  in  all  her  pomp  and  pride, 
With  sails  expanded,  flew  along  the  tide; 
'Twas  thy  deep  stream,  O  Delaware,  that  bore 
This  pile  intended  for  a  southern  shore, 
Bound  to  those  isles  where  endless  summer  reigns, 
Fair  fruits,  gay  blossoms,  and  enamelled  plains; 
Where  sloping  lawns  the  roving  swain  invite; 
And  the  cool  morn  succeeds  the  breezy  night, 
Where  each  glad  day  a  heaven  unclouded  brings 
And  sky-topt  mountains  teem  with  golden  springs. 

From  Cape  Henlopen,  urged  by  favoring  gales, 
When  morn  emerged,  we  sea-ward  spread  our  sails, 
Then,  east-south-east,  explored  the  briny  way, 
Close  to  the  wind,  departing  from  the  bay; 
No  longer  seen  the  hoarse  resounding  strand, 
With  hearts  elate  we  hurried  from  the  land, 

[202] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Escaped  the  dangers  of  that  shelving  ground 
To  sailors  fatal,  and  for  wrecks  renowned. 

The  gale  increases  as  we  plow  the  main, 
Now  scarce  the  hills  their  sky-blue  mist  retain: 
At  last  they  sink  beneath  the  rolling  wave 
That  seems  their  summits,  as  they  sink,  to  lave. 
Abaft  the  beam  the  freshening  breezes  play, 
No  mists  advancing  to  deform  the  day, 
No  tempests  rising  o'er  the  splendid  scene, 
A  sea  unruffled,  and  a  heaven  serene. 

Now  Sol's  bright  lamp,  the  heaven-born  source  of  light. 
Had  passed  the  line  of  his  meridian  height, 
And  westward  hung — retreating  from  the  view 
Shores  disappeared,  and  every  hill  withdrew, 
When,  still  suspicious  of  some  neighboring  foe, 
Aloft  the  Master  bade  a  seaman  go, 
To  mark  if,  from  the  mast's  aspiring  height, 
Through  all  the  round,  a  vessel  came  in  sight. 

Too  soon  the  seaman's  glance  extending  wide 
Far  distant  in  the  east  a  ship  espied, 
Her  lofty  masts  stood  bending  to  the  gale, 
Close  to  the  wind  was  braced  each  shivering  sail ; 
Next  from  the  deck  we  saw  the  approaching  foe, 
Her  spangled  bottom  seemed  in  flames  to  glow 
When  to  the  winds  she  bowed  in  dreadful  haste 
And  her  lee-guns  lay  deluged  in  the  waist; 
From  her  top-gallant  waved  an  English  Jack; — 
With  all  her  might  she  strove  to  gain  our  tack, 
Nor  strove  in  vain — with  pride  and  power  elate, 
Winged  on  by  winds,  she  drove  us  to  our  fate, 
No  stop,  no  stay  her  bloody  crew  intends, 
(So  flies  a  comet  with  its  host  of  fiends) 
Nor  oaths,  nor  prayers  arrest  her  swift  career, 
Death  in  her  front,  and  ruin  in  her  rear. 

Struck  at  the  sight,  the  master  gave  command 
To  change  our  course,  and  steer  toward  the  land — 
Straight  to  the  task  the  ready  sailors  run, 
And  while  the  word  was  uttered,  half  was  done; 
As,  from  the  south,  the  fiercer  breezes  rise 
Swift  from  her  foe  alarmed  Aurora  flies, 

[203J 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


With  every  sail  extended  to  the  wind 
She  fled  the  unequal  foe  that  chaced  behind. — 
Along  her  decks,  disposed  in  close  array, 
Each  at  its  port,  the  grim  artillery  lay, 
Soon  on  the  foe  with  brazen  throat  to  roar; 
But,  small  their  size,  and  narrow  was  their  bore; 
Yet,  faithful,  they  their  destined  station  keep 
To  guard  the  barque  that  wafts  them  o'er  the  deep, 
Who  now  must  bend  to  steer  a  homeward  course 
And  trust  her  swiftness  rather  than  her  force, 
Unfit  to  combat  with  a  powerful  foe; 
Her  decks  too  open,  and  her  waist  too  low. 

While  o'er  the  wave,  with  foaming  prow,  she  flies, 
Once  more  emerging,  distant  landscapes  rise; 
High  in  the  air  the  starry  streamer  plays, 
And  every  sail  its  various  tribute  pays; 
To  gain  the  land,  we  bore  the  "weighty  blast; 
And  now  the  wished-f or  cape  appeared  at  last ; 
But  the  vext  foe,  impatient  of  delay, 
Prepared  for  ruin,  pressed  upon  his  prey; 
Near,  and  more  near,  in  awful  grandeur  came 
The  frigate  Iris,  not  unknown  to  fame; 
Iris  her  name,  but  Hancock  once  she  bore, 
Framed  and  completed  on  New  Albion's  shore, 
By  Manly  lost,  the  swiftest  of  the  train 
That  fly  with  wings  of  canvas  o'er  the  main. 

Then,  while  for  combat  some  with  zeal  prepare, 
Thus  to  the  heavens  the  Boatswain  sent  his  prayer: 
"List,  all  ye  powers  that  rule  the  skies  and  seas! 
Shower  down  perdition  on  such  thieves  as  these, 
Winds,  daunt  their  hearts  with  terror  and  dismay, 
And  sprinkle  on  their  powder  salt-sea  spray! 
May  bursting  cannon,  while  his  aim  he  tries, 
Distract  the  gunner,  and  confound  his  eyes — 
The  chief  that  awes  the  quarter-deck,  may  he 
Tripped  from  his  stand,  be  tumbled  in  the  sea. 
May  they  who  rule  the  round-top's  giddy  height 
Be  canted  headlong  to  perpetual  night ; 
May  fiends  torment  them  on  a  leeward  coast, 
And  help  forsake  them  when  they  want  it  most — 
From  their  wheeled  engines  torn  be  every  gun — 
And  now,  to  sum  up  every  curse  in  one, 

[204] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


May  latent  flames,  to  save  us,  intervene, 

And  hell-ward  drive  them  from  their  magazine!" 

The  Frigate,  now,  had  every  sail  unfurled, 
And  rushed  tremendous  o'er  the  watery  world; 
Thus  fierce  Pelides,  eager  to  destroy, 
Chased  the  proud  Trojan  to  the  gates  of  Troy — 
Swift  o'er  the  waves  while,  hostile,  they  pursue, 
As  swiftly  from  their  fangs  Aurora  flew, 
At  length  Henlopen's  cape  we  gained  once  more, 
And  vainly  strove  to  force  the  ship  ashore; 
Stern  fate  forbade  the  barren  shore  to  gain ; 
Denial  sad,  and  source  of  future  pain! 
For  then  the  inspiring  breezes  ceased  to  blow, 
Lost  were  they  all,  and  smoothed  the  seas  below; 
By  the  broad  cape  becalmed,  our  lifeless  sails 
No  longer  swelled  their  bosoms  to  the  gales ; 
The  ship,  unable  to  pursue  her  way, 
Tumbling  about,  at  her  own  guidance  lay, 
No  more  the  helm  its  wonted  influence  lends, 
No  oars  assist  us,  and  no  breeze  befriends; 
Meantime  the  foe,  advancing  from  the  sea, 
Ranged  her  black  cannon,  pointed  on  our  lee, 
Then  up  she  luffed,  and  blazed  her  entrails  dire, 
Bearing  destruction,  terror,  death,  and  fire. 
Vext  at  our  fate,  we  primed  a  piece,  and  then 
Returned  the  shot,  to  shew  them  we  were  men. 

Dull  night  at  length  her  dusky  pinions  spread, 
And  every  hope  to  escape  the  foe  was  fled, 
Close  to  thy  cape,  Henlopen,  though  we  pressed, 
We  could  not  gain  thy  desert,  dreary  breast; 
Though  ruined  trees  beshroud  thy  barren  shore 
With  mounds  of  sand  half  hid,  or  covered  o'er, 
Though  ruffian  winds  disturb  thy  summit  bare, 
Yet  every  hope  and  every  wish  was  there: 
In  vain  we  sought  to  reach  the  joyless  strand, 
Fate  stood  between,  and  barred  us  from  the  land. 

All  dead  becalmed,  and  helpless  as  we  lay, 
The  ebbing  current  forced  us  back  to  sea, 
While  vengeful  Iris,  thirsting  for  our  blood, 
Flashed  her  red  lightnings  o'er  the  trembling  flood; 
At  every  flash  a  storm  of  ruin  came 
Till  our  shocked  vessel  shook  through  all  her  frame — 


[205] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Mad  for  revenge,  our  breasts  with  fury  glow 

To  wreck  returns  of  vengeance  on  the  foe; 

Full  at  his  hull  our  pointed  guns  we  raised, 

His  hull  resounded  as  the  cannon  blazed; 

Through  his  broad  sails  while  some  a  passage  tore. 

His  sides  re-echoed  to  the  dreadful  roar, 

Alternate  fires  dispelled  the  shades  of  night 

But  how  unequal  was  this  daring  fight! 

Our  stoutest  guns  threw  but  a  six-pound  ball, 

Twelve  pounders  from  the  foe  our  sides  did  maul ; 

And,  while  no  power  to  save  him  intervenes, 

A  bullet  struck  our  captain  of  marines ; 

Fierce,  though  he  bid  defiance  to  the  foe, 

He  felt  his  death  and  ruin  in  the  blow, 

Headlong  he  fell,  distracted  with  the  wound, 

The  deck  distained,  and  heart  blood  streaming  round. 

Another  blast,  as  fatal  in  its  aim, 
Winged  by  destruction,  through  our  rigging  came, 
And  aimed  aloft,  to  cripple  in  the  fray, 
Shrouds,  stays,  and  braces  tore  at  once  away, 
Sails,  blocks,  and  oars  in  scattered  fragments  fiy — 
Their  softest  language  was — submit,  or  die. 

Repeated  cries  throughout  the  ship  resound; 
Now  every  bullet  brought  a  different  wound; 
Twixt  wind  and  water,  one  assailed  the  side: 
Through  this  aperture  rushed  the  briny  tide — 
'Twas  then  the  Master  trembled  for  his  crew, 
And  bade  thy  shores,  O  Delaware,  adieu! — 
And  must  we  yield  to  yon  destructive  ball, 
And  must  our  colors  to  these  ruffians  fall!— 
They  fall! — his  thunders  forced  our  strength  to  bend, 
The  lofty  topsails,  with  their  yards,  descend, 
And  the  proud  foe,  such  leagues  of  ocean  passed, 
His  wish  completed  in  our  woe  at  last. 

Conveyed  to  York,  we  found,  at  length,  too  late 
That  Death  was  better  than  the  prisoner's  fate, 
There  doomed  to  famine,  shackles,  and  despair, 
Condemned  to  breathe  a  foul,  infected  air 
In  sickly  hulks,  devoted  while  we  lay, 
Successive  funerals  gloomed  each  dismal  day — 
But  what  on  captives  British  rage  can  do, 
Another  Canto,  friends,  shall  let  you  know. 

[206] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


The  Continental  Congress  at  the  beginning  of  the  war  authorized 
the  construction  of  a  number  of  war-vessels.  One  of  these  ships,  built 
at  Boston,  Mass.,  and  carrying  32  guns,  was  named  the  Hancock  and 
proved  to  be  very  swift ;  but  it  was  captured  while  cruising  under  Captain 
Manly  by  the  Rainbow,  44  guns,  Captain  Sir  George  Collier.  The 
British  did  not  wish  to  have  their  prize  known  by  its  patriotic  name 
while  in  their  service  so  they  re-named  it  the  Iris,  the  Latin  word  for 
rainbow. 


Canto  II. — The  Prison-Ships. 

The  various  horrors  of  these  hulks  to  tell, 
These  Prison  Ships  where  pain  and  penance  dwell, 
Where  death  in  tenfold  vengeance  holds  his  reign, 
And  injured  ghosts,  yet  unavenged,  complain; 
This  be  my  task — ungenerous  Britons,  you 
Conspire  to  murder  whom  you  can't  subdue. 

That  Britain's  rage  should  dye  our  plains  with  gore, 
And  desolation  spread  through  every  shore,  • 
None  e'er  could  doubt,  that  her  ambition  knew, — 
This  was  to  rage  and  disappointment  due; 
But  that  those  legions  whom  our  soil  maintained, 
Who  first  drew  breath  in  this  devoted  land, 
Like  famished  wolves,  should  on  their  country  prey, 
Assist  its  foes,  and  wrest  our  lives  away, 
This  shocks  belief — and  bids  our  soil  disown 
Such  knaves,  subservient  to  a  bankrupt  throne. 
By  them  the  widow  mourns  her  partner  dead, 
Her  mangled  sons  to  darksome  prisons  led, 
By  them — and  hence  my  keenest  sorrows  rise, 
My  friend — companion— my  Orestes  dies — 
Still  for  that  loss  must  wretched  I  complain, 
And  sad  Ophelia  mourn  her  loss — in  vain! 

Ah!  come  that  day  when  from  this  bleeding  shore 
Fate  shall  remove  them,  to  return  no  more — 
To  scorched  Bahama  shall  the  traitors  go 
With  grief,  and  rage,  and  unremitting  woe, 
On  burning  sands  to  walk  their  painful  round, 
And  sigh  through  all  the  solitary  ground, 
Where  no  gay  flower  their  haggard  eyes  shall  see, 
And  find  no  shade — but  from  the  cypress  tree. 

So  much  we  suffered  from  the  tribe  I  hate, 
So  near  they  shoved  us  to  the  brink  of  fate, 

[207] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


JERSEY,  THE  BRITISH  PRISONSHIP 

She  was  known  as  "Hell  Afloat",  and  11,000   Americans  perished   in  her 
of  starvation  and  disease 

From  a  drawing  in  the  original  manuscripts  of  Capt.  Thomas 
Dring,  a  prisoner  in  the  Jersey;  reproduced  here  from  Htstory  of  the 
Arnold  Tavern  by  courtesy  of  Mr.  Philip  H.  Hoffman. 


[208] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


When  two  long  months  in  these  dark  hulks  we  lay 
Barred  down  by  night,  and  fainting  all  the  day 
In  the  fierce  fervors  of  the  solar  beam, 
Cooled  by  no  breeze  on  Hudson's  mountain-stream; 
That  not  unsung  these  threescore  days  shall  fall 
To  black  oblivion  that  would  cover  all! 

No  masts  or  sails  these  crowded  ships  adorn, 
Dismal  to  view,  neglected  and  forlorn; 
Here,  mighty  ills  oppressed  the  imprisoned  throng, 
Dull  were  our  slumbers,  and  our  nights  were  long. 
From  morn  to  eve  along  the  decks  we  lay 
Scorched  into  fevers  by  the  solar  ray; 
No  friendly  awning  cast  a  welcome  shade, 
Once  it  was  promised,  and  was  never  made; 
No  favors  could  these  sons  of  death  bestow, 
'Twas  endless  vengeance  and  unceasing  woe: 
Immortal  hatred  does  their  breasts  engage, 
And  this  lost  empire  swells  their  souls  with  rage. 

Two  hulks  on  Hudson's  stormy  bosom  lie, 
Two,  on  the  east,  alarm  the  pitying  eye — 
There,  the  black  Scorpion  at  her  mooring  rides, 
There,  Strombolo  swings,  yielding  to  the  tides; 
Here,  bulky  Jersey  fills  a  larger  space, 
And  Hunter,  to  all  hospitals  disgrace. 

Thou,  Scorpion,  fatal  to  thy  crowded  throng, 
Dire  theme  of  horror  and  Plutonian  song, 
Requir'st  my  lay — thy  sultry  decks  I  know, 
And  all  the  torments  that  exist  below! 
The  briny  wave  that  Hudson's  bosom  fills 
Drained  through  her  bottom  in  a  thousand  rills: 
Rotten  and  old,  replete  with  sighs  and  groans, 
Scarce  on  the  waters  she  sustained  her  bones; 
Here,  doomed  to  toil,  or  founder  in  the  tide, 
At  the  moist  pumps  incessantly  we  plied, 
Here,  doomed  to  starve,  like  famished  dogs,  we  tore 
The  scant  allowance  that  our  tyrants  bore. 

Remembrance  shudders  at  this  scene  of  fears — 
Still  in  my  view  some  tyrant  chief  appears, 
Some  base-born  Hessian  slave  walks  threatening  by, 
Some  servile  Scot,  with  murder  in  his  eye, 
Still  haunts  my  sight,  as  vainly  they  bemoan 
Rebellions  managed  so  unlike  their  own! 

[209] 


O  may  we  never  feel  the  poignant  pain 

To  live  subjected  to  such  fiends  again, 

Stewards  and  Mates,  that  hostile  Britain  bore, 

Cut  from  the  gallows  on  their  native  shore; 

Their  ghastly  looks  and  vengeance-beaming  eyes 

Still  to  my  view  in  dismal  visions  rise — 

O  may  I  ne'er  review  these  dire  abodes, 

These  piles  for  slaughter,  floating  on  the  floods, — 

And  you,  that  o'er  the  troubled  ocean  go, 

Strike  not  your  standards  to  this  venom ed  foe, 

Better  the  greedy  wave  should  swallow  all, 

Better  to  meet  the  death-conducting  ball, 

Better  to  sleep  on  ocean's  oozy  bed, 

At  once  destroyed  and  numbered  with  the  dead, 

Than  thus  to  perish  in  the  face  of  day 

Where  twice  ten  thousand  deaths  one  death  delay. 

When  to  the  ocean  sinks  the  western  sun, 
And  the  scorched  Tories  fire  their  evening  gun, 
"Down,  rebels,  down!"  the  angry  Scotchmen  cry, 
"Base  dogs,  descend,  or  by  our  broad  swords  die!" 

Hail,  dark  abode!  what  can  with  thee  compare- 
Heat,  sickness,  famine,  death,  and  stagnant  air — 
Pandora's  box,  from  whence  all  mischiefs  flew, 
Here  real  found,  torments  mankind  anew! 
Swift  from  the  guarded  deck  we  rushed  along, 
And  vainly  sought  repose,  so  great  our  throng; 
Four  hundred  wretches  here,  denied  all  light, 
In  crowded  mansions  pass  the  infernal  night, 
Some  for  a  bed  their  tattered  vestments  join, 
And  some  on  chests,  and  some  on  floors  recline ; 
Shut  from  the  blessings  of  the  evening  air 
Pensive  we  lay  with  mingled  corpses  there, 
Meagre  and  wan,  and  scorched  with  heat,  below, 
We  looked  like  ghosts,  ere  death  had  made  us  so — 
How  could  we  else,  where  heat  and  hunger  joined, 
Thus  to  debase  the  body  and  the  mind, — 
Where  cruel  thirst  the  parching  throat  invades, 
Dries  up  the  man  and  fits  him  for  the  shades. 

No  waters  laded  from  the  bubbling  spring 
To  these  dire  ships  these  little  tyrants  bring — 
By  plank  and  ponderous  beams  completely  walled 
In  vain  for  water  and  in  vain  we  called — 

[210] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


No  drop  was  granted  to  the  midnight  prayer, 
To  rebels  in  these  regions  of  despair! 
The  loathsome  cask  a  deadly  dose  contains, 
Its  poison  circling  through  the  languid  veins; 
"Here,  generous  Briton,  generous,  as  you  say, 
To  my  parched  tongue  one  cooling  drop  convey, 
Hell  has  no  mischief  like  a  thirsty  throat, 
Nor  one  tormentor  like  your  David  Sproat." 

Dull  passed  the  hours,  till  from  the  East  displayed 
Sweet  morn  dispelled  the  horrors  of  the  shade ; 
On  every  side  dire  objects  met  the  sight, 
And  pallid  forms,  and  murders  of  the  night, — 
The  dead  were  past  their  pain,  the  living  groan, 
Nor  dare  to  hope  another  morn  their  own ; 
But  what  to  them  is  morn's  delightful  ray? 
Sad  and  distressful  as  the  close  of  day ; 
O'er  distant  streams  appears  the  dewy  green, 
And  leafy  trees  on  mountain  tops  are  seen, 
But  they  no  groves  nor  grassy  mountains  tread, 
Marked  for  a  longer  journey  to  the  dead. 

Black  as  the  clouds  that  shade  St.  Kilda's  shore, 
Wild  as  the  winds  that  round  her  mountains  roar, 
At  every  post  some  surly  vagrant  stands, 
Culled  from  the  English  or  the  Hessian  bands, — 
Dispensing  death  triumphantly  they  stand, 
Their  musquets  ready  to  obey  command; 
Wounds  are  their  sport,  as  ruin  is  their  aim; 
On  their  dark  souls  compassion  has  no  claim, 
And  discord  only  can  their  spirits  please: 
Such  were  our  tyrants  here,  and  such  were  these. 

Ingratitude!     no  curse  like  thee  is  found 
Throughout  this  jarring  world's  tumultuous  round, 
Their  hearts  with  malice  to  our  country  swell 
Because,  in  former  days,  we  used  them  well! 
This  pierces  deep,  too  deeply  wounds  the  breast; 
We  helped  them  naked,  friendless,  and  distrest, 
Received  them,  vagrants,  with  an  open  hand; 
Bestowed  them  buildings,  privilege,  and  land — 
Behold  the  change! — when  angry  Britain  rose, 
These  thankless  tribes  became  our  fiercest  foes, 
By  them  devoted,  plundered,  and  accurst, 
Stung  by  the  serpents  whom  ourselves  had  nursed. 

[211] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


But  such  a  train  of  endless  woes  abound, 
So  many  mischiefs  in  these  hulks  are  found, 
That  on  them  all  a  poem  to  prolong 
Would  swell  too  far  the  horrors  of  our  song — 
Hunger  and  thirst,  to  work  our  woe,  combine, 
And  moldy  bread,  and  flesh  of  rotten  swine ; 
The  mangled  carcase,  and  the  battered  brain, 
The  doctor's  poison,  and  the  captain's  cane, 
The  soldier's  musquet,  and  the  steward's  debt, 
The  evening  shackle  and  the  noon-day  threat. 

That  balm,  destructive  to  the  pangs  of  care, 
Which  Rome  of  old,  nor  Athens  could  prepare, 
Which  gains  the  day  for  many  a  modern  chief 
When  cool  reflection  yields  a  faint  relief, 
That  charm,  whose  virtue  warms  the  world  beside, 
Was  by  these  tyrants  to  our  use  denied; 
While  yet  they  deigned  that  healthsome  balm  to  lade 
The  putrid  water  felt  its  powerful  aid, 
But  when  refused — to  aggravate  our  pains- 
Then  fevers  raged  and  reveled  through  our  veins; 
Throughout  my  frame  I  felt  its  deadly  heat, 
I  felt  my  pulse  with  quicker  motions  beat; 
A  pallid  hue  o'er  every  face  was  spread, 
Unusual  pains  attacked  the  fainting  head; 
No  physic  here,  no  doctor  to  assist, 
With  oaths  they  placed  me  on  the  sick  man's  list; 
Twelve  wretches  more  the  same  dark  symptoms  took, 
And  these  were  entered  on  the  doctor's  book; 
The  loathsome  Hunter  was  our  destined  place, 
The  Hunter  to  all  hospitals  disgrace ; 
With  soldiers,  sent  to  guard  us  on  our  road, 
Joyful  we  left  the  Scorpion's  dire  abode; 
Some  tears  we  shed  for  the  remaining  crew, 
Then  cursed  the  hulk,  and  from  her  sides  withdrew. 


Canto    III. — The    Hospital    Prison-Ship. 

Now  towards  the  Hunter's  gloomy  decks  we  came, 
A  slaughter-house,  yet  hospital  in  name; 
For  none  came  there,  till  ruined  with  their  fees, 
And  half  consumed,  and  dying  of  disease; — 
But  when  too  near,  with  laboring  oars  we  plied, 
The  Mate  with  curses  drove  us  from  the  side; 

[212] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


That  wretch  who,  banished  from  the  navy  crew, 

Grown  old  in  blood,  did  here  his  trade  renew, 

His  rancorous  tongue,  when  on  his  charge  let  loose, 

Uttered  reproaches,  scandal  and,  abuse, 

Gave  all  to  hell,  who  dared  his  king  disown, 

And  swore  mankind  were  made  for  George  alone. 

A  thousand  times,  to  irritate  our  woe, 

He  wished  us  foundered  in  the  gulf  below; 

A  thousand  times,  he  brandished  high  his  stick, 

And  swore  as  often  that  we  were  not  sick — 

And  yet  so  pale! — that  we  were  thought  by  some 

A  freight  of  ghosts,  from  death's  dominions  come — 

But  calmed  at  length — for  who  can  always  rage, 

Or  the  fierce  war  of  boundless  passion  wage, 

He  pointed  to  the  stairs  that  led  below 

To  damps,  disease,  and  varied  shapes  of  woe 

Down  to  the  gloom  we  took  our  pensive  way, 

Along  the  decks  the  dying  captives  lay ; 

Some  struck  with  madness,  some  with  scurvy  pained, 

But  still  of  putrid  fevers  most  complained! 

On  the  hard  floors  these  wasted  objects  laid, 

There  tossed  and  tumbled  in  the  dismal  shade, 

There  no  soft  voice  their  bitter  fate  bemoaned, 

And  death  trode  stately,  while  the  victims  groaned; 

Of  leaky  decks  I  heard  them  long  complain, 

Drowned  as  they  were  in  deluges  of  rain, 

Denied  the  comforts  of  a  dying  bed, 

And  not  a  pillow  to  support  the  head — 

How  could  they  else  but  pine,  and  grieve,  and  sigh, 

Detest  a  wretched  life — and  wish  to  die. 

Scarce  had  I  mingled  with  this  dismal  band 
When  a  thin  victim  seized  me  by  the  hand — 
"And  art  thou  come,"  (death  heavy  on  his  eyes) 
"And  art  thou  come  to  these  abodes," — (he  cries) ; 
"Why  didst  thou  leave  the  Scorpion's  dark  retreat 
And  hither  haste,  a  surer  death  to  meet? 
Why  didst  thou  leave  thy  damp  infected  cell  ? 
If  that  was  purgatory,  this  is  hell— 
We,  too,  grown  weary  of  that  horrid  shade 
Petitioned  early  for  the  doctor's  aid; 
His  aid  denied,  more  deadly  symptoms  came, 
Weak,  and  yet  weaker,  glowed  the  vital  flame  ; 
And  when  disease  had  worn  us  down  so  low 
That  few  could  tell  if  we  were  ghosts,  or  no, 


[213] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


And  all  asserted  death  would  be  our  fate — 
Then  to  the  doctor  we  were  sent — too  late. 
Here  wastes  away  Eurymedon  the  brave, 
Here  young  Palemon  finds  a  watery  grave, 
Here  loved  Alcander,  now  alas!  no  more, 
Dies,  far  sequestered  from  his  native  shore ; 
He  late,  perhaps,  too  eager  for  the  fray, 
Chased  the  proud  Briton  o'er  the  watery  way, 
Till  fortune,  jealous,  bade  her  clouds  appear, 
Turned  hostile  to  his  fame,  and  brought  him  here. 

"Thus  do  our  warriors,  thus  our  heroes  fall, 
Imprisoned  here,  sure  ruin  meets  them  all, 
Or,  sent  afar  to  Britain's  barbarous  shore, 
There  pine  neglected,  and  return  no  more:— 
Ah,  rest  in  peace,  each  injured,  parted  shade, 
By  cruel  hands  in  death's  dark  weeds  arrayed. 
The  days  to  come  shall  to  your  memory  raise 
Piles  on  these  shores,  to  spread  thro'  earth  your  praise. 

From  Brooklyn  heights  a  Hessian  doctor  came, 
Not  great  his  skill,  nor  greater  much  his  fame; 
Fair  Science  never  called  the  wretch  her  son, 
And  Art  disdained  the  stupid  man  to  own ; — 
Can  you  admire  that  Science  was  so  coy, 
Or  Art  refused  his  genius  to  employ? — 
Do  men  with  brutes  an  equal  dullness  share, 
Or  cuts  yon  groveling  mole  the  midway  air — 
In  polar  worlds  can  Eden's  blossoms  blow, 
Do  trees  of  God  in  barren  deserts  grow? 
Are  loaded  vines  to  Etna's  summit  known, 
Or  swells  the  peach  beneath  the  frozen  zone — 
Yet  still  he  put  his  genius  to  the  rack 
And,  as  you  may  suppose,  was  owned  a  quack. 

He  on  his  charge  the  healing  work  begun 
With  antimonial  mixtures,  by  the  tun, 
Ten  minutes  was  the  time  he  deigned  to  stay, 
The  time  of  grace  allotted  once  a  day.— 
He  drenched  us  well  with  bitter  draughts,  'tis  true. 
Nostrums  from  hell,  and  cortex  from  Peru — 
Some  with  his  pills  he  sent  to  Pluto's  reign, 
And  some  he  blistered  with  his  flies  of  Spain; 
His  Tartar  doses  walked  their  deadly  round, 
Till  the  lean  patient  at  the  potion  frowned 

[214] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


And  swore  that  hemlock,  death,  or  what  you  will, 

Were  nonsense  to  the  drugs  that  stuffed  his  bill. — 

On  those  refusing,  he  bestowed  a  kick, 

Or  menaced  vengeance  with  his  walking  stick ; — 

Here,  uncontroled,  he  exercised  his  trade, 

And  grew  experienced  by  the  deaths  he  made. 

By  frequent  blows  we  from  his  cane  endured 

He  killed  at  least  as  many  as  he  cured, 

On  our  lost  comrades  built  his  future  fame, 

And  scattered  fate  where'er  his  footsteps  came. 

Some  did  not  bend,  submissive  to  his  skill, 
And  swore  he  mingled  poison  with  his  pill, 
But  I  acquit  him  by  a  fair  confession, 
He  was  no  Myrmidon — he  was  a  Hessian — 
Although  a  dunce,  he  had  some  sense  of  sin 
Or  else  the  Lord  knows  where  we  now  had  been ; 
No  doubt,  in  that  far  country  sent  to  range 
Where  never  prisoner  meets  with  an  exchange — 
No  sentries  stand,  to  guard  the  midnight  posts, 
Nor  seal  down  hatch-ways  on  a  crowd  of  ghosts. 

Knave  though  he  was,  yet  candor  must  confess 
Not  chief  Physician  was  this  man  of  Hesse — 
One  master  o'er  the  murdering  tribe  was  placed, 
By  him  the  rest  were  honored  or  disgraced; 
Once,  and  but  once,  by  some  strange  fortune  led 
He  came  to  see  the  dying  and  the  dead — 
He  came — but  anger  so  deformed  his  eye, 
And  such  a  falchion  glittered  on  his  thigh, 
And  such  a  gloom  his  visage  darkened  o'er 
And  two  such  pistols  in  his  hands  he  bore! 
That,  by  the  gods! — with  such  a  load  of  steel, 
He  came,  we  thought,  to  murder,  not  to  heal — 
Rage  in  his  heart  and  mischief  in  his  head, 
He  gloomed  destruction  ,and  had  smote  us  dead, 
Had  he  so  dared- — but  fear  withheld  his  hand — 
He  came — blasphemed — and  turned  again  to  land. 

From  this  poor  vessel  and  her  sickly  crew 
A  British  seaman  all  his  titles  drew, 
Captain,   esquire,   commander,   too,   in   chief, 
And  hence  he  gained  his  bread,  and  hence  his  beef, 
But,  sir,  you  might  have  searched  creation  round 
And  such  another  ruffian  not  have  found — 


[215] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Though  unprovoked,  an  angry  face  he  bore, 

All  were  astonished  at  the  oaths  he  swore ; 

He  swore,  till  every  prisoner  stood  aghast, 

And  thought  him  Satan  in  a  brimstone  blast; 

He  wished  us  banished  from  the  public  light, 

He  wished  us  shrouded  in  perpetual  night! 

That  were  he  king,  no  mercy  would  he  show, 

But  drive  all  rebels  to  the  world  below; 

That  if  we  scoundrels  did  not  scrub  the  decks 

His  staff  should  break  our  base  rebellious  necks; — 

He  swore,  besides,  that  should  the  ship  take  fire 

We  too  must  in  the  pitchy  flames  expire ; 

And  meant  it  so — this  tyrant,  I  engage, 

Had  lost  his  life,  to  gratify  his  rage. — 

If  where  he  walked  a  murdered  carcase  lay, 
Still  dreadful  was  the  language  of  the  day — 
He  called  us  dogs  ,and  would  have  held  us  so, 
But  terror  checked  the  mediated  blow 
Of  vengeance,  from  our  injured  nation  due 
To  him,  and  all  the  base  unmanly  crew. 

Such  food  they  sent,  to  make  complete  our  woes, 
It  looked  like  carrion  torn  from  hungry  crows: 
Such  vermin  vile  on  every  joint  were  seen, 
So  black,  corrupted,  mortified  and  lean, 
That  once  we  tried  to  move  our  flinty  chief, 
And  thus  addressed  him,  holding  up  the  beef: 

"See,  captain,  see!     what  rotten  bones  we  pick, 
What  kills  the  healthy  cannot  cure  the  sick : 
Not  dogs  on  such  by  Christian  men  are  fed, 
And  see,  good  master,  see,  what  lousy  bread!" 

"Your  meat  or  bread"  (this  man  of  death  replied) 
'  'Tis  not  my  care  to  manage  or  provide — 
But  this,  base  rebel  dogs,  I'd  have  you  know, 
That  better  than  you  merit  we  bestow: 
Out  of  my  sight!" — nor  more  he  deigned  to  say 
But  whisked  about,  and  frowning  strode  away. 

Each  day,  at  least  six  carcases  we  bore 
And  scratched  them  graves  along  the  sandy  shore. 
By  feeble  hands  the  shallow  graves  were  made, 
No  stone,  memorial,  o'er  the  corpses  laid; 

[216] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


In  barren  sands,  and  far  from  home,  they  lie, 
No  friend  to  shed  a  tear,  when  passing  by; 
O'er  the  mean  tombs  the  insulting  Britons  tread. 
Spurn  at  the  sand,  and  curse  the  rebel  dead. 

When  to  your  arms  these  fatal  islands  fall, 
(For  first,  or  last,  they  must  be  conquered  all) 
Americans!     to  rites  sepulchral  just, 
With  gentlest  footstep  press  this  kindred  dust, 
And  o'er  the  tombs,  if  tombs  can  then  be  found, 
Place  the  green  turf,  and  plant  thn  myrtle  round. 

These  all  in  Freedom's  sacred  cause  allied, 
For  Freedom  ventured  and  for  Freedom  died. 
To  base  subjection  they  were  never  broke, 
They  could  not  bend  beneath  a  foreign  yoke: 
Had  these  survived,  perhaps  in  thraldom  held> 
To  serve  the  Britons  they  had  been  compelled — 
Ungenerous  deed! — can  they  the  charge  deny? 
This  to  avoid  how  many  chose  to  die. 

Americans!     a   just   resentment   shew, 
And  glut  revenge  on  this  detested  foe; 
While  the  warm  blood  distends  the  glowing  vein 
Still  shall  resentment  in  your  bosoms  reign: 
Can  you  forget  the  greedy  Briton's  ire, 
Your  fields  in  ruin,  and  your  domes  on  fire, 
No  age,  no  sex,  from  lust  and  murder  free, 
And,  black  as  night,  the  hell-born  refugee! 
Must  York  forever  your  best  blood  entomb, 
And  these  gorged  monsters  triumph  in  our  doom, 
Who  leave  no  art  of  cruelty  untried; — 
Such    heavy  vengeance,  and  such  hellish  pride! 
Death  has  no  charms — his  realms  dejected  lie 
In  the  dull  climate  of  a  clouded  sky, 
Death  has  no  charms,  except  in  British  eyes, 
See,  armed  for  blood,  the  ambitious  vultures  rise, 
See  how  they  pant  to  stain  the  world  with  gore, 
And  millions  murdered,  still  would  murder  more; 
That  selfish  race,  from  all  the  world  disjoined, 
Perpetual  discord  spread  among  mankind, 
Aim  to  extend  their  empire  o'er  the  ball, 
Subject,  destroy,  absorb,  and  conquer  all; 
As  if  the  power  that  formed  us  did  condemn 
All  other  nations  to  be  slaves  to  them — 


[217] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Rouse  from  your  sleep,  and  crush  the  invading  band,. 
Defeat,  destroy,  and  sweep  them  from  the  land, 
Allied  like  you,  what  madness  to  despair, — 
Attack  the  ruffians  while  they  linger  there; 
There  Tryon  sits,  a  tyrant  all  complete, 
See  Vaughan,  there,  with  rude  Knyphausen  meet, 
And  every  wretch,  whom  honor  should  detest 
There  finds  a  home — and  Arnold  with  the  rest. 

Ah!  trakors,  lost  to  every  sense  of  shame, 
Unjust  supporters  of  a  tyrant's  claim ; 
Foes  to  the  rights  of  freedom  and  of  men, 
Flushed  with  the  blood  of  thousands  you  have  slain, 
To  the  just  doom  the  righteous  heavens  decree 
We  leave  you  toiling  still  in  cruelty, 
Or  on  dark  plans  in  future  herds  to  meet, 
Plans  formed  in  hell,  and  projects  half  complete: 
The  years  approach  that  shall  to  ruin  bring 
Your  lords,  your  chiefs,  your  desolating  king, 
Whose  murderous  acts  shall  stamp  his  name  accursed, 
And  his  last  efforts  more  than  damn  the  first. 

Written  in  1780. 

Philip  Freneau. 


During  the  long  course  of  the  war,  the  British  took  many  prisoners.. 
In  order  to  prevent  escape  or  re-capture,  they  collected  them  on  the  lower 
end  of  Manhattan,  that  being  their  strongest  base  of  operations.  They 
used  the  churches  and  sugar-houses  in  the  vicinity  of  Liberty  street 
as  prisons  and  confined  therein  the  American  soldiers,  placing  them  in 
charge  of  the  notorious  William  Cunningham  as  Provost-Marshal.  But 
they  kept  the  American  sailors  who  fell  into  their  hands  imprisoned  on 
shipboard  under  the  general  charge  of  David  Sproat  as  Commissary  of 
Naval  Prisoners. 

The  oldest,  leakiest  vessels  of  the  British  navy,  having  been  dis 
mantled  at  Gravesend  by  the  removal  of  spars  and  rigging  and  masts, 
and  refitted  as  prisonships,  were  towed  up  the  East  river  and  moored 
in  Wallabout  bay  (now  the  United  States  Navy  Yard)  about  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  east  of  the  Brooklyn  bridge,  a  place  safe  from  waves 
and  storm,  readily  accessible  yet  far  enough  away  to  prevent  the  spreading 
of  epidemic  and  pestilence  to  their  own  ships  and  camps,  difficult  for 
escape  and  impossible  for  rescue. 

This  place  became  a  place  of  martyrdom,  for  here,  cooped  within 
these  foul  and  loathsome  hulks,  died  thousands  of  American  patriots, 
the  victims  of  cruelty,  exposure,  neglect,  disease  and  starvation. 

The  history  of  the  sufferings  on  the  British  prisonships  begins 
October  20,  1776,  the  day  on  which  the  Whitby  was  moored  in  Wallabout 
bay.  The  food,  ventilation  and  other  health  conditions  were  intolerable; 
and  the  rows  of  the  victims'  graves  in  the  sands  of  the  nearby  Brooklyn 
shore  lengthened  so  rapidly  that  the  vessel  was  justly  regarded  as  a  float- 

[218] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


ing  pest-house.  In  the  following  May,  she  was  replaced  by  two  other 
boats  which  were  soon  destroyed  by  fire  under  circumstances  that  gave 
rise  to  the  suspicion,  probably  well-grounded,  that  they  were  set  on  fire 
by  the  prisoners  themselves  in  their  despair. 

In  April,  1778,  the  prison  fleet  included  the  Hunter,  the  Falmouth, 
and  the  Good  Hope;  and  among  other  ships  afterward  condemned  and 
assigned  to  this  vile  service  were  the  John,  formerly  a  transport,  the 
Perseverance  and  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

The  Good  Hope  was  burned  in  the  early  part  of  1780;  and  in  March 
of  that  year  two  other  vessels  were  fitted  up  for  the  reception  of  prisoners, 
the  Scorpion,  a  sometime  sloop,  and  the  Stromboli,  a  sometime  fire-ship; 
and  seem  to  have  been  anchored  for  a  time  in  the  Hudson  river  off  the 
Battery.  About  this  time,  too,  there  was  moored  in  Wallabout  bay  the 
largest  and  most  infamous  of  all  the  prison-ships,  the  Jersey. 

These  prison  hulks,  from  first  to  last,  included  about  fifteen  vessels; 
but  five  or  six  was  the  largest  number  stationed  in  Wallabout  bay  at  any 
one  time. 

The  Jersey  had  been  a  ship-of-the-line  of  the  fourth  class,  having 
been  rated  as  a  sixty-gun  vessel  and  manned  by  a  crew  of  400  sailors. 
She  was  built  in  1736  and  had  seen  much  service,  having  served  in  the 
Mediterranean  sea,  among  the  West  Indies  and  on  the  coast  of  Newfound 
land,  and  been  damaged  in  battle  with  the  French  off  Brest.  She  had 
once  been  under  the  command  of  Vice-Admiral  Vernon.  In  1776  she  was 
converted  into  a  store-ship  and  was  so  used  in  New  York  harbor  until 
1780  when  she  was  changed  into  a  prison-ship.  Her  port  holes  were 
closed;  and  four  windows,  each  twenty  inches  square,  were  cut  on  the 
side  of  each  deck  about  ten  feet  apart  and  grated  with  iron  bars,  for  ven 
tilation.  Each  of  her  two  decks  was  divided  into  two  large  compart 
ments  by  a  bulkhead;  as  thus  arranged  the  vessel  could  hold  about  1000 
prisoners. 

She  continued  to  be  used  as  a  prison-ship  until  the  end  of  the  war, 
and  well  did  she  deserve  her  name  of  Hell  Afloat.  She  was  never  removed 
from  her  anchorage;  the  worms  destroyed  her  bottom  and  she  sank 
into  the  mud  where  her  ribs  could  be  seen  at  low  tide  for  many  years 
thereafter. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  note  to  describe  the  sufferings  of  the 
American  prisoners  or  to  set  forth  the  proofs  of  the  inhuman  treatment 
to  which  they  were  subjected  by  their  captors;  but  perhaps  a  brief  account 
of  daily  life  in  captivity  on  these  prison-ships  may  prove  of  interest, 
seeing  that  here  thousands  of  Americans  died  the  death  of  martyrs. 

The  crew  of  the  Jersey  consisted  of  a  few  officers  and  twelve 
marines  from  the  invalid  list  of  the  British  fleet,  who  remained  on  the 
vessel  all  the  time.  In  addition  to  this  permanent  crew,  the  real  force 
that  held  the  captives  in  subjection  was  a  company  of  thirty  soldiers 
or  marines  who  were  changed  every  week.  These  did  not  mingle  with 
the  prisoners  but  were  stationed  behind  a  barricade  which  had  been  built 
across  the  fore  part  of  the  ship  and  was  provided  with  loopholes  through 
which  they  could  fire  on  the  prisoners  in  case  of  insubordination  or  mutiny. 
Sometimes  these  were  Hessians,  to  these  the  prisoners  were  friendly; 
sometimes  they  were  English  troops;  to  these  the  prisoners  were  in 
different;  but  when  tories  were  sent  on  board  as  a  guard,  there  was  con 
stant  friction,  an  exchange  of  jeers,  insults  and  curses. 

Ordinary  tasks  about  the  ship  were  performed  by  a  volunteer 
working  party  of  twenty  American  prisoners  in  charge  of  an  American 

[219] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


officer  known  as  the  boatswain ;  these  were  compensated  for  their  services 
by  an  extra  allowance  of  food.  These  assisted  the  sick  and  disabled, 
carried  up  the  dead,  hoisted  the  wood  and  water  and  provisions,  and 
washed  the  decks.  Prisoners  were  required  in  turn  to  work  under  guard 
in  the  well-room  at  pumping  out  the  bilge-water  that  poured  in  through 
the  leaks,  in  order  to  keep  the  old  hulks  from  sinking. 

During  the  night  all  the  prisoners  remained  between  decks  securely 
fastened  down,  sleeping  crowded  side  by  side  on  the  floor,  or  just  above 
those  on  the  floor,  in  long  rows  of  hammocks  which  were  put  up  and  taken 
down  daily. 

At  sunrise  the  gratings  were  removed,  and  the  guards  cried, 
"Turn  out  your  dead.  '  If  the  weather  permitted,  the  prisoners  went  on 
deck  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  to  take  exercise  which  they  did  by  marching 
in  platoons  at  word  of  command,  to  wash  their  clothing  which  they  did 
by  spreading  it  on  the  deck,  pouring  sea-water  over  it  and  trampling  on 
it  with  their  feet,  and  to  while  away  the  hours  as  best  they  could  in  spin 
ning  yarns,  relating  their  adventures  to  each  other,  carving  their  names 
on  beams  and  planks,  and  throwing  dice  and  playing  cards. 

If  a  prisoner  had  died  during  the  night,  his  mess-mates  sewed  the 
body  in  a  sack,  and  it  was  carried  up  and  placed  on  the  gratings.  Soon 
the  dead-boat  was  brought  alongside,  and  volunteers  were  called  for  to 
bury  the  dead.  This  was  regarded  as  a  privilege  for  it  meant  going  on 
shore  for  a  short  time.  When  the  burial  squad  was  ready,  the  bodies 
were  lowered  over  the  rail  into  the  dead-boat  one  at  a  time  by  a  rope. 

One  morning  after  the  dead  had  been  brought  up,  the  work  was 
delayed  for  a  time  by  a  sudden  dash  of  rain.  As  the  sacks  were  being 
lowered,  one  of  them  was  observed  to  stir.  "Here  is  one  alive,"  said 
one  of  the  burial  squad.  "Never  mind,"  said  the  officer,  "if  he  is  not 
dead  he  soon  will  be."  The  sack  having  been  ripped  open,  the  victim 
enclosed  was  found  to  be  alive;  he  recovered  and  lived  a  long  time  after 
the  war.  The  boat  was  rowed  to  shore.  Shovels  were  obtained  from  a 
hut,  also  wheel  barrows  to  convey  the  bodies  to  the  trenches  which  were 
hastily  scooped  in  long  rows  on  the  beach.  The  graves  were  sometimes 
so  shallow  that  the  corpses  had  to  be  bent  over  and  trampled  down ;  and 
sometimes  after  a  heavy  rain,  heads  and  arms  could  be  seen  protruding 
from  the  sand. 

The  prisoners  engaged  in  this  work  counted  themselves  happy 
if  they  could  on  their  way  back  pick  up  a  stick  or  two  of  driftwood 
or  gather  a  few  handfuls  of  grass  or  pluck  a  stray  flower. 

Fresh  water  for  use  by  the  prisoners  was  brought  in  a  boat  under 
guard  from  a  spring  on  the  east  bank  of  Wallabout  creek  near  the  house 
of  Jeremiah  Johnson  who  was  serving  in  the  Continental  army.  This 
supply  was  limited  especially  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year,  and  then 
water  was  brought  from  Manhattan  island;  but  even  this  failed  at  times 
and  then  they  had  to  use  water  which  had  been  run  into  tanks  into  the 
hold  through  leather  hose  and  was  now  pumped  up,  offensive  to  the  smell 
and  ropy. 

The  men  were  not  allowed  free  access  to  the  drinking  water;  this 
was  kept  in  a  tub  guarded  by  the  invalid  marines,  and  was  doled  out  to 
the  men  with  chained  copper  ladles  as  they  marched  up  in  line.  Each 
man  after  drinking  as  much  as  he  wished  was  allowed  to  carry  away  with 
him  one  pint  of  water  daily. 

All  the  prisoners  were  divided  into  squads  of  six,  called  messes; 
each  mess  was  designated  by  a  number,  and  one  of  the  six  acted  as  a 

[220] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


spokesman  or  leader.  Biscuit  and  uncooked  meat  were  distributed 
at  the  steward's  office  daily,  each  leader  as  his  number  was  called  coming 
up  and  receiving  the  allowance  for  his  mess,  which  was  pushed  out  through 
an  opening. 

The  approved  way  of  eating  a  biscuit  was  to  keep  tapping  it 
against  the  floor  to  rattle  the  worms  out;  and  some  of  the  biscuit  had 
been  eaten  out  so  hollow  that  they  could  be  crushed  in  the  hand,  and  a 
little  cloud  of  dust  would  rise  up. 

Under  the  forecastle  there  was  a  copper  kettle  eight  feet  square 
embedded  in  brick-work  where  the  chief  cook  and  his  scullions  made  all 
the  soup  and  boiled  all  the  meat.  This  huge  cauldron,  called  the  Galley 
or  Great  Copper,  was  divided  into  two  compartments  by  a  partition. 
In  one  end  pea  soup  was  prepared  and  served  out  daily;  in  the  other  end 
all  the  meat  was  cooked. 

The  meat  distributed  to  each  mess  was  wrapped  up  separately 
and  tied  to  a  long  string;  a  tally  stick  having  on  it  a  name  or  the  number 
of  the  mess  was  fastened  to  the  other  end  of  the  string.  At  the  ringing 
of  the  cook's  bell,  hundreds  of  these  parcels  were  thrown  into  the  boiler 
and  left  with  the  sticks  hanging  over  the  edge  for  identification.  At  the 
next  signal  of  the  bell  all  the  packages  were  taken  from  the  boiler  whether 
done  or  not.  This  kettle  was  often  coated  with  green  rust. 

Sometimes  the  cook  would  allow  some  of  the  prisoners  to  cook 
their  own  meat  which  they  did  by  driving  a  nail  into  the  brick-work 
and  hanging  thereon  a  little  tin  pail  and  heating  the  water  by  means 
of  a  handful  of  fine  shavings  which  they  would  bring  already  prepared 
in  their  pockets.  Their  object  in  doing  this  was  to  avoid  the  green 
rust  of  the  copper  kettle. 

A  Dutch  woman  in  a  market  boat  was  wont  to  come  alongside  and 
offer  for  sale  small  articles  such  as  pipes  and  tobacco,  needles  and  thread, 
to  any  new  captive  who  was  so  fortunate  as  to  have  succeeded  in  retaining 
a  little  money.  Sometimes  too  a  little  rye  bread  or  fruit  would  be  sent 
on  board  by  the  Johnson  family  at  the  spring;  and  then  the  starving  men 
would  gather  around  the  lucky  possessor  and  watch  him  wistfully  until 
the  last  particle  had  disappeared.  Letters  written  to  friends  at  home 
were  sometimes  secretly  dropped  on  the  beach  or  near  the  spring  in  the 
hope  that  by  some  chance  they  might  reach  their  destination. 

Two  hours  before  sundown,  the  prisoners  were  required  to  take 
the  bedding  below.  At  sunset  the  guards  cried,  Down,  rebels,  down; 
all  went  below  and  were  fastened  down  by  heavy  gratings  placed  over 
the  hatchways.  Each  grating  had  a  small  trap-door  in  its  center  through 
which  during  the  night  one  person  at  a  time  was  allowed  to  go  on  deck. 

Occasionally  in  their  despair  some  of  the  prisoners  would  make 
attempts  to  escape.  One  way  was  to  file  the  bars  from  the  windows  and 
wait  until  some  dark  stormy  night;  then  those  who  could  swim  would 
back  out  of  the  window  feet  first,  dive  off  as  far  as  possible  and  crawl  on 
the  mud  for  the  shore.  Guard  boats  were  always  on  watch  around  the 
ship  and  when  the  attempt  was  discovered,  they  would  give  chase  and 
try  to  shoot  and  spear  the  escaping  swimmers. 

Many  instances  of  wanton  cruelty  were  inflicted  on  helpless 
American  prisoners,  but  personal  brutality  is  not  the  worst  count  in  the 
indictment  which  humanity  draws  against  the  British  administration. 
The  ventilation  was  so  poor  that  the  air  was  poisonous  and  deadly. 
The  water  supplied  for  drinking  was  always  insufficient  and  often  un 
wholesome  and  foul.  The  biscuit  was  unfit  for  use;  and  the  meat  was 
putrid  when  distributed  and  then  poisoned  in  the  cooking. 

[221] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  truth  is  that  the  British  army  was  attended  by  a  swarm  of 
speculators  of  high  and  low  degree  who  lined  their  pockets  by  charging 
their  government  for  the  largest  and  best  while  doling  out  to  their  victims 
the  least  and  worst,  the  difference  being  their  margin  of  profit.  That 
is  why  there  was  death  in  the  pot,  not  occasionally  or  by  accident,  but 
systematically  and  deliberately. 


CAPTAIN  JONES'S  INVITATION. 

Thou  who  on  some  dark  mountain's  brow 
Hast  toiled  thy  life  away  till  now, 
And  often  from  that  rugged  steep 
Beheld  the  vast  extended  deep, 
Come  from  thy  forest,  and  with  me 
Learn  what  it  is  to  go  to  sea. 

There  endless  plains  the  eye  surveys 
As  far  from  land  the  vessel  strays; 
No  longer  hill  nor  dale  is  seen, 
The  realms  of  death  intrude  between, 
But  fear  no  ill ;  resolve  with  me 
To  share  the  dangers  of  the  sea. 

But  look  not  there  for  verdant  fields — 
Far  different  prospects   Neptune  yields; 
Green  seas  shall  only  greet  the  eye, 
Those  seas  encircled  by  the  sky, 
Immense  and  deep — come  then  with  me 
And  view  the  wonders  of  the  sea. 

Yet  sometimes  groves  and  meadows  gay 
Delight  the  seamen  on  their  way; 
From  the  deep  seas  that  round  us  swell 
With  rocks  the  surges  to  repel 
Some  verdant  isle,  by  waves  embraced, 
Swells,  to  adorn  the  wat'ry  waste. 

Though  now  this  vast  expanse  appear 
With  glassy  surface  calm  and  clear; 
Be  not  deceived — 'tis  but  a  show, 
For  many  a  corpse  is  laid  below — 
Even  Britain's  lads — it  can  not  be — 
They  were  the  masters  of  the  sea! 

Now  combating  upon  the  brine, 
Where  ships  in  flaming  squadrons  join, 

[222] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


-At  every  blast  the  brave  expire 
.'Midst  clouds  of  smoke  and  streams  of  fire; 
.  But  scorn  all  fear;  advance  with  me — 
Tis  but  the  custom  of  the  sea. 

Now  we  the  peaceful  wave  divide, 
On  broken  surges  now  we  ride, 
Now  every  eye  dissolves  with  woe 
As  on  some  lee-ward  coast  we  go — 
Half  lost,  half  buried  in  the  main 
Hope  scarcely  beams  on  life  again. 

Above  us  storms  distract  the  sky, 
Beneath  us  depths  unfathomed  lie, 
Too  near  we  see,  a  ghastly  sight, 
The  realms  of  everlasting  night, 
A  wat'ry  tomb  of  ocean  green 
And  only  one  frail  plank  between! 

But  winds  must  cease  and  storms  decay, 
Nor  always  lasts  the  gloomy  day, 
Again  the  skies  are  warm  and  clear, 
Again  soft  zephyrs  fan  the  air, 
Again  we  find  the  long-lost  shore, 
The  winds  oppose  our  wish  no  more. 

If  thou  hast  courage  to  despise 
The  varying  changes  of  the  skies, 
To  disregard  the  ocean's  rage, 
Unmoved  when  hostile  ships  engage, 
Come  from  thy  forest,  and  with  me 
Learn  what  it  is  to  go  to  sea. 

Philip  Freneau. 


John  Paul  Jones  was  born  in  Scotland  in  1747.  He  came  to 
America  and  lived  for  a  time  at  Fredericksburg,  Va.  At  the  outbreak 
of  the  Revolution,  his  advice  was  sought  by  a  committee  of  the  Conti 
nental  Congress  concerning  the  construction  and  equipment  of  war- 
vessels.  In  1775  he  was  commissioned  a  Captain  in  the  United  States  navy, 
and  commanded  in  turn  the  Alfred,  Providence,  Ranger  and  Bon  Homme 
Richard.  While  in  command  of  the  last-named  ship,  he  won  his  most 
famous  sea-fight  off  Flamboro  Head  on  the  eastern  coast  of  England 
on  September  23,  1779,  capturing  the  Serapis,  a  British  ship,  after  a 
desperate  three  hours'  battle.  He  died  at  Paris  in  1792  and  was  honored 
with  a  public  funeral  by  the  French  Assembly.  His  body  was  brought 
home  in  1906  and  re-interred  in  the  chapel  of  the  United  States  Naval 
Academy  at  Annapolis. 

,[223] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


SIR  HARRY'S  INVITATION. 

Those  Americans  who  sympathized  with  Great  Britain  in  her 
efforts  to  subdue  the  colonies  were  known  as  Tories.  Some  Tories  re 
mained  quietly  at  their  homes  awaiting  the  issue  of  events;  others  were 
driven  away  by  their  patriotic  neighbors,  or  left  their  homes  of  their 
own  accord  and  sought  refuge  within  the  British  lines.  Hundreds  of 
these  Tories  nocked  into  New  York  City.  When  their  ready  money  was 
exhausted  for  board  and  lodging,  they  enlisted  in  the  British  service 
and  were  employed  on  the  fortifications  at  low  wages. 

The  words  of  Freneau's  stinging  satire  are  placed  in  the  mouth 
of  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  British  army,  and 
are  supposed  to  be  addressed  by  him  to  the  visiting  Tories. 


Come,  gentlemen  Tories,  firm,  loyal  and  true 
Here  are  axes  and  shovels  and  something  to  do! 

For  the  sake  of  our  king, 

Come,  labor  and  sing; 
You  left  all  you  had  for  his  honor  and  glory , 
And  he  will  remember  the  suffering  tory; 

We  have,  it  is  true, 

Some  small  work  to  do; 

But  here's  for  your  pay 

Twelve  coppers  a  day, 
And  never  regard  what  the  rebels  may  say, 
But  throw  off  your  jerkins  and  labor  away. 

To  raise  up  the  rampart,  and  pile  up  the  wall, 
To  pull  down  old  houses  and  dig  the  canal, 

To  build  and   destroy — 

Be  this  your  employ, 

In  the  day  time  to  work  at  our  fortifications, 
And  steal  in  the  night  from  the  rebels  your  rations ; 

The  king  wants  your  aid, 

Not    empty    parade ; 

Advance  to  your  places, 

Ye  men  of  long  faces, 

Nor  ponder  too  much  on  your  former  disgraces, 
This  year,  I  presume,  will  quite  alter  your  cases. 

Attend  at  the  call  of  the  fifer  and  drummer, 

The  French  and  the  Rebels  are  coming  next  summer, 

And  forts  we  must  build 

Though  Tories  are  killed — 

Then  courage,  my  jockies,  and  work  for  your  king, 
For  if  you  are  taken  no  doubt  you  will  swing — 

[224] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


If  York  we  can  hold 

I'll  have  you  enrolled; 

And  after  you're  dead 

Your  names  shall  be  read 

As  who  for  their  monarch  both  labored  and  bled, 
And  ventured  their  necks  for  their  beef  and  their  bread. 

Tis  an  honor  to  serve  the  bravest  of  nations, 
And  be  left  to  be  hanged  in  their  capitulations — 

Then  scour  up  your  mortars 

And  stand  to  your  quarters, 
'Tis  nonsense  for  Tories  in  battle  to  run, 
They  never  need  fear  sword,  halberd  or  gun 

Their  hearts  should  not  fail   'em, 

No  balls  will  assail  'em, 

Forget  your  disgraces 

And  shorten  your  faces, 
For  'tis  true  as  the  gospel,  believe  it  or  not, 
Who  are  born  to  be  hanged,  will  never  be  shot. 

Philip  Freneau. 


THE   NEW   ROOF. 

A  Song  for  Federal  Mechanics. 

Come  muster,  my  lads,  your  mechanical  tools, 
Your  saws  and  your  axes,  your  hammers  and  rules; 
Bring  your  mallets  and  planes,  your  level  and  line, 
And  plenty  of  pins  of  American  pine: 
For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still  shall  be, 
Our  government  firm,  and  our  citizens  free. 

Come,  up  with  the  plates,  lay  them  firm  on  the  wall, 
Like  the  people  at  large,  they're  the  ground  work  of  all; 
Examine  them  well,  and  see  that  they're  sound, 
Let  no  rotten  part  in  our  building  be  found: 
For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still  shall  be, 
A  government  firm,  and  our  citizens  free. 

Now  lay  up  the  girders,  lay  each  in  his  place, 
Between  them  the  joists  must  divide  all  the  space; 
Like  assemblymen,  these  should  lie  level  along, 
Like  girders,  our  senate  prove  loyal  and  strong: 
For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still  shall  be 
A  government  firm  over  citizens  free. 


[225] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  rafters  now  frame,  your  king-posts  and  braces; 
And  drive  your  pins  home  to  keep  all  in  their  places; 
Let  wisdom  and  strength  in  the  fabric  combine, 
And  your  pins  be  all  made  of  American  pine: 
For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still  shall  be, 
A  government  firm  over  citizens  free. 

Our  king-posts  are  judges;  how  upright  they  stand, 
Supporting  the  braces,— the  laws  of  the  land — 
The  laws  of  the  land,  which  divide  right  from  wrong, 
And  strengthen  the  weak,  by  weak'ning  the  strong: 
For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still  shall  be, 
Laws  equal  and  just  for. a  people  that's  free. 

Up!     up!     with  the  rafters;  each  frame  is  a  state; 
How  nobly  they  rise!  their  span,  too,  how  great! 
From  the  north  to  the  south,  o'er  the  whole  they  extend 
And  rest  on  the  walls,  whilst  the  walls  they  defend: 
For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still  shall  be 
Combined  in  strength,  yet  as  citizens  free. 

Now  enter  the  purlins,  and  drive  your  pins  through; 
And  see  that  your  joints  are  drawn  home  and  all  true. 
The  purlins  will  bind  all  the  rafters  together: 
The  strength  of  the  whole  shall  defy  wind  and  weather: 
For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still  shall  be, 
United  as  states  but  as  citizens  free. 

Come,  raise  up  the  turret,  our  glory  and  pride; 
In  the  center  it  stands,  o'er  the  whole  to  preside; 
The  sons  of  Columbia  shall  view  with  delight 
Its  pillars  and  arches  and  towering  height: 
Our  roof  is  now  raised,  and  our  song  still  shall  be, 
A  federal  head  o'er  a  people  that's  free. 

Huzza]  my  brave  boys,  our  work  is  complete; 
The  world  shall  admire  Columbia's  seat; 
Its  strength  against  tempest  and  time  shall  be  proof, 
And  thousands  shall  come  to  dwell  under  our  roof: 
Whilst  we  drain  the  deep  bowl,  our  toast  still  shall  be 
Our  government  firm,  and  our  citizens  free. 

Francis  Hopkinson. 

[226] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


WELCOME  TO  WASHINGTON. 

Sung  in  his  presence  at  Trenton,  April  21,  1789,  by  a  choir 
of  virgins  and  matrons. 

Air :     See    the   Conquering    Hero   Comes. 

If  a  book  ever  be  written  on  the  joys  of  the  life  of  George  Wash 
ington,  one  of  the  chapters  in  that  book  will  be  devoted  to  an  account  of 
his  triumphal  journey  from  Mount  Vernon  to  New  York  city  as  President 
elect.  He  was  notified  of  his  election  on  April  14,  1789;  he  left  his  home 
on  the  second  day  thereafter,  and  on  April  23rd  he  crossed  from  Eliza- 
bethtown  to  Manhattan. 

His  journey  was  a  continuous  ovation.  As  the  presidential  party 
approached,  men,  women  and  children  nocked  to  the  roadside;  towns 
people  lined  the  streets;  local  military  organizations,  horse  and  foot, 
mustering  in  full  force,  advanced  to  meet  him  and  then  escorted  him  as  a 
guard  of  honor  to  the  next  town ;  cities  greeted  him  with  formal  addresses 
of  welcome,  and  public  banquets  were  given  in  his  honor. 

But  the  climax  of  the  whole  joyous  procession  was  at  Trenton, 
where  New  Jersey  gave  him  a  most  loyal  welcome.  The  method  and 
manner  of  his  reception  was  unique,  but  appropriate,  graceful  and  tender. 

But  this  was  not  General  Washington's  first  visit  to  Trenton, 
as  all  the  world  knows.  He  had  crossed  the  Delaware  twelve  years  before, 
and  how  impressive  were  the  contrasts. 

When  he  made  his  famous  crossing,  it  was  night  and  bitterly 
cold ;  the  Delaware  was  full  of  floating  ice ;  and  he  was  turning  in  despair 
against  the  insolent  foe  quartered  in  Trenton  under  the  ill-starred  Rail; 
this  time  the  river  was  rippling  brightly  in  the  April  sunshine,  and  glad 
hearts  were  awaiting  his  arrival. 

When  a  week  later  he  had  stood  behind  Assunpink  creek,  he  was 
hemmed  in  by  a  superior  force  of  grenadiers  under  Cornwallis  who  was 
expecting  to  crush  him  in  the  morning;  this  time  he  advanced  across 
Assunpink  bridge  under  a  triumphal  arch  of  evergreen  and  laurels  and 
was  welcomed  by  youth  and  beauty  with  flowers  and  song.  The  top  of  the 
arch  bore  this  inscription,  The  Defender  of  the  Mothers  will  be  the  Pro 
tector  of  the  Daughters 

"At  this  bridge,"  says  Washington  Irving,  "the  matrons  of  the 
city  were  assembled  to  pay  him  reverence;  and  as  he  passed  under  the 
arch,  a  number  of  young  girls,  dressed  in  white  and  crowned  with  garlands, 
strewed  flowers  before  him  singing  an  ode  expressive  of  their  love  and 
gratitude." 

As  the  choir  began  to  sing,  Washington  checked  his  steed,  un 
covered  his  head  and  listened  with  deep  emotion.  The  ode  which  they 
•sang  had  been  written  for  the  occasion  by  the  Governor  of  New  Jersey. 


Choir :  Welcome,  mighty  Chief,  once  more, 

Welcome  to  this  grateful  shore; 
Now  no  mercenary  foe 
Aims  at  thee  the  fatal  blow, 

Virgins :  Aims  at  thee  the  fatal  blow. 

1227] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Virgins :  Virgins  fair 

Matrons  :  and  matrons  grave, 

Choir  :  These  thy  conquering  arms  did  save, 

Build  for  thee  triumphal  bowers; 
Matrons  :  Strew,  ye  fair,  his  way  with  flowers, 

Virgins  :  Strew  our  Hero's  way  with  flowers. 

Gov.  Richard  Howell 


Washington  was  deeply  affected  and  subsequently  handed  to  Rev. 
James  Francis  Armstrong  the  following  note: 

"Trenton,  April  21st,    1789. 

"General  Washington  cannot  leave  this  place  without  expressing 
his  acknowledgment  to  the  matrons  and  young  ladies  who  received  him 
in  so  novel  and  graceful  a  manner,  at  the  triumphal  arch  in  Trenton, 
for  the  exquisite  sensation  he  experienced  in  that  affecting  moment. 

"The  astonishing  contrast  between  his  former  and  actual  situation 
at  the  spot,  the  elegant  taste  with  which  it  was  adorned  for  the  present 
occasion,  and  the  innocent  appearance  of  the  white-robed  choir,  who  met 
him  with  a  gratulatory  song,  have  made  such  impressions  upon  his  re 
membrance  as  he  assures  them  will  never  be  effaced. 

G.    Washington." 


THE  BOWER. 

Epigrams  on  the  States  of  the  Union,  July  4,  1789 

On  the  4th  of  July,  1789,  there  was  an  elegant  bower  erected  in 
front  of  the  White  Hall  tavern  in  New  Brunswick,  N.  J.  It  was  made  of 
pine  and  cedar  bushes.  The  front  of  the  bower  consisted  of  twelve  hand 
some  arches,  emblematical  of  the  States  which  had  then  accepted  the 
new  Constitution.  The  following  epigrams  were  printed  on  cards  and 
placed  over  the  arches  of  the  States  they  were  designed  to  represent: 


New  Hampshire. 

Her  active  sons,  a  hardy  race, 

All  friends  to  freedom  will  embrace. 

Massachusetts. 

Fell  discord  now  no  longer  there  is  seen, 
The  Arts  now  flourish,  all  is  now  serene; 
A  potent  friend  her  sister  states  doth  know ; 
The  scourge  of  tyrants — Britain  found  her  so. 


Connecticut. 

All  useful  arts  throughout  this  state  are  spread, 
And  idleness  ashamed  to  show  her  head. 


[228] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


New    York. 

This  state  is  honoured  with  the  federal  seat, 
And  anti-federals  now  must  own  they're  beat. 

i 

New   Jersey. 

When  Howe  had  fairly  done  his  best, 
He  said  this  was  a  hornet's  nest. 

Pennsylvania. 

This  state  in  federal  measures  took  the  lead ; 

In  war's  alarms,  for  war  her  sons  decreed; 

In  times  which  tried  men's  souls,  they  firmly  stood 

And  nobly  sealed  their  freedom  with  their  blood. 

Maryland. 

Proudly  by  mountain  and  bay  she  stands, 
A  grantor  of  rights  but  a  claimer  of  lands. 

Delaware. 

This  little  state,  when  in  the  darkest  hour, 
Threw  in  her  mite  and  did  all  in  her  power. 

Virginia. 

She  can  justly  boast  the  birth 
Of  the  greatest  man  on  earth. 

South    Carolina. 

Although  by   Britons  over-run. 

Yet  they  could  not  subdue; 

For  when  they  thought  their  task  near  done, 

Then  Greene  made  them  look  blue. 

North    Carolina. 

This  state  in  clouds  of  darkness  lies, 
Though  in  five  months  her  sun  will  rise. 

Georgia. 

This  feeble  state,  distressed  by  a  savage  band, 
Her  sister  states  should  lend  a  helping  hand. 

Capt.  Moses  Guest. 

Fell  discord.  Insurgents  in  western  Massachusetts,  led  by  Daniel 
Shays,  had  tried  to  prevent  the  collection  of  debts. 

Federal  seat.  The  first  national  congress  met  in  New  York  city; 
and  in  that  city  Washington  took  the  oath  of  office  as  President  of  the 
United  States. 

[229] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


In  clouds  of  darkness.  North  Carolina  in  1788  had  refused  to 
ratify  the  United  States  Constitution.  Meanwhile  the  first  ten  amend 
ments  had  been  added  to  the  constitution ;  these  were  acceptable  to 
North  Carolina,  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  she  would  ratify  the  con 
stitution  at  a  convention  which  had  been  called  to  meet  in  November, 
1789. 

Distressed  by  savage  band.  The  Creek  Indians  who  could  muster 
6000  warriors  allied  themselves  with  the  British  during  the  Revolution 
ary  war.  After  the  treaty  of  peace,  these  Indians,  incited  by  the  Tories 
who  took  refuge  among  them,  continued  to  ravage  the  frontiers  of 
Georgia  until  1790. 

Rhode  Island  did  not  ratify  the  Constitution  until  May,  1790. 


JERSEY  BLUE. 

A  Song  of  the  New  Jersey  Militia 
Written  at  Bedford,  Pa.,  1794. 

This  song  was  New  Jersey's  patriotic  response  to  the  first  call  for 
troops  ever  made  by  a  President  of  the  United  States.  It  was  written 
in  camp  and  sung  on  the  march:  it  was  written  by  a  New  Jersey  Governor 
commanding  personally  in  the  field,  and  sung  by  New  Jersey  troops  while 
inarching  to  uphold  the  authority  of  National  law.  The  New  Jersey 
militia  had  been  mustered  into  the  national  service  and  were  pushing  west 
ward  over  the  mountains  of  Pennsylvania  to  suppress  the  Whiskey  insur 
rection.  They  had  been  worn  out  and  exhausted  by  their  long,  tedious, 
tiresome  marches.  This  song  was  composed  for  the  purpose  of  re-kind 
ling  their  enthusiasm;  and  it  accomplished  that  purpose  by  touching 
exactly  the  right  chord  of  the  soldier's  heart. 


To  arms  once  more  our  hero  cries, 
Sedition  lives  and  order  dies. 
To  peace  and  ease  then  bid  adieu, 
And  dash  to  the  mountains,  Jersey  Blue, 

Dash  to  the  mountains,  Jersey  Blue, 

Jersey  Blue,  Jersey  Blue, 

And  dash  to  the  mountains,  Jersey  Blue. 

Since  proud  ambition  rears  its  head, 
And  murders  rage,  and  discords  spread, 
To  save  from  spoil  the  virtuous  few, 
Dash  over  the  mountains,  Jersey  Blue. 

Roused  at  the  call,  with  magic  sound 
The  drums  and  trumpets  circle  round; 
As  soon  the  corps  their  route  pursue, — 
Dash  over  the  mountains,  Jersey  Blue. 

Unstained  with  crimes,  unused  to  fear. 
In  deep  array  our  youths  appear 


[230] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


And  fly  to  crush  the  rebel  crew, 

Or  die  in  the  mountains,  Jersey  Blue. 

Tho'  tears  bedew  the  maiden's  cheeks, 

And  storms  hang  round  the  mountain  peaks, 

'Tis  glory  calls,  to  love  adieu, 

Then  dash  to  the  mountains,  Jersey  Blue. 

Should  foul  misrule  and  party  rage 
With  law  and  liberty  engage, 
Push  home  your  steel,  you'll  soon  review 
Your  native  plains,  brave  Jersey  Blue, 

Jersey    Blue,    Jersey    Blue, 

And  dash  to  the  mountains,  Jersey  Blue. 

Gov.  Richard  Howell. 


To  arms  once  more  our  hero  cries.  This  allusion  to  George 
Washington  is  very  effective;  as  President  of  the  United  States  he  had 
summoned  the  Jersey  Blues  to  the  field.  By  this  reference  to  General 
Washington,  the  poet  very  skillfully  associates  their  present  expedition 
with  the  glory  of  the  Revolutionary  campaigns. 

Sedition  lives.  Mass  meetings  had  been  held  and  resolutions 
had  been  passed  to  defy  the  laws  of  Congress. 

And  murders  rage.  This  expression  is  not  justified  by  the  facts; 
the  more  hot-headed  element  among  the  discontented  population  ad 
vocated  open  resistance,  but  the  Whiskey  Boys  were  not  murderers. 

To  save  from  spoil  the  virtuous  few.  Some  who  saw  the  serious 
turn  which  the  agitation  was  assuming  professed  their  readiness  to  obey 
the  law  and  pay  the  excise,  but  they  were  intimidated;  their  distilleries 
were  broken  into  by  unknown  persons  and  the  equipments  rendered  use 
less  or  destroyed. 

Our  youths  appear.  Most  of  the  volunteers  were  young  men 
who  had  been  boys  during  the  Revolution  and  therefore  unable  to  take 
part  in  that  struggle. 

Push  home  your  steel.  Many  arrests  were  made,  but  there  was 
no  fighting. 

Jersey  Blue.  This  term  is  synonymous  with  patriotism,  fortitude 
and  courage.  The  expression  Jersey  Blue  as  applied  to  a  Jerseyman 
is  of  Revolutionary  origin  and  dates  from  the  year  1776.  The  British 
garrison  stationed  at  Newark  by  Lord  Howe  in  November,  1776,  as  he  was 
pursuing  the  Americans  across  the  Jerseys,  committed  so  many  outrages 
on  the  inhabitants  of  Essex  county  that  a  company  of  volunteers  was 
organized  under  Captain  Eliakim  Littell  in  order  to  prevent  and  punish 
their  depredations.  The  patriotic  ladies  of  the  community  furnished 
these  volunteers  with  frocks  and  trousers  of  tow,  home-spun,  home-made, 
and  dyed  a  bright  blue. 

The  name  of  this  distinctive  Jersey  uniform  became  in  this 
way  associated  with  the  most  sacred,  memories  of  our  State  and  has 
ever  since  been  proudly  retained. 

[231] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


The  Constitution  of  the  United  States  went  into  operation  with  the 
inauguration  of  Washington  as  President;  and  the  first  serious  test  to 
which  the  Union  was  subjected  was  the  outbreak  known  as  the  Whiskey 
Insurrection. 

Congress  in  1791  imposed  an  excise  tax  on  distilled  liquor.  It  is 
admitted  that  this  tax  lell  with  great  inequality  on  the  different  sections 
of  our  country  and  with  special  hardship  on  the  settlers  of  western  Penn 
sylvania.  The  difficulties  of  transportation  prevented  the  farmers  from 
conveying  their  grain  to  the  eastern  markets;  the  only  thing  they  could 
do  was  to  make  it  into  whiskey,  crowding  the  highest  value  into  the  least 
weight,  and  then  send  the  whiskey  over  the  mountains  in  kegs  on  pack- 
horses.  Moreover,  the  excise  was  payable  in  cash,  and  there  was  no  money 
circulating  in  that  isolated  frontier  community.  So  there  were  good 
grounds  for  complaint  and  remonstrance,  and  violent  resolutions  passed 
in  mass-meeting  under  excitement  might  have  been  overlooked,  but  the 
agitators  finally  crossed  the  line  which  separates  legal  opposition  from 
criminal  resistance. 

President  Washington  decided  to  enforce  the  national  law,  but 
he  showed  great  tact  in  making  use  of  the  militia  instead  of  the  standing 
army.  The  insurgents  were  known  as  the  Whiskey  Boys  and  could  prob 
ably  have  mustered  7000  men.  They  posted  placards  signed  by  Tom  the 
Tinker,  and  in  ridicule  they  nicknamed  the  visiting  militia  the  Water- 
Melon  army. 

Washington  called  on  four  States  to  furnish  a  total  of  15000  men. 
Pennsylvania  herself  sustained  the  national  cause  and  furnsihed  her  full 
quota  of  militia  under  Gov.  Mifflin.  The  Marylanders  were  commanded 
by  Gen.  Samuel  Smith  and  the  Virginians  by  Gen.  Daniel  Morgan.  The 
Jersey  Blues  were  led  by  Gov.  Richard  Howe.  The  Maryland  and 
Virginia  regiments  formed  the  left  wing;  and  those  from  New  Jersey  and 
Pennsylvania,  the  right  wing.  The  whole  expedition  was  placed  under 
the  command  of  Gov.  Henry  Lee  (Light-Horse  Harry)  of  Virginia.  It 
will  be  noticed  that  all  these  officers  had  served  in  the  Revolutionary 
war. 

Starting  from  Trenton  on  September  22nd,  the  Jersey  Blues 
marched  two  hundred  miles  across  the  Blue  Mountains  and  reached 
Bedford  on  October  23rd;  it  was  still  one  hundred  miles  to  Pittsburg, 
their  destination,  and  just  in  front  of  them  towered  the  highest  peaks 
of  the  Alleghany  mountains.  The  rain  drenched  them  every  day  and 
the  mud  was  ankle  deep.  There  and  then  Gov.  Howell  composed  this 
song  for  his  troops  and  they  sang  it  with  a  will. 


ODE  TO  NEW  JERSEY. 

The  rolling  wave  is  on  thy  shore, 

Jersey  land,  my  Jersey  land! 
Aloft  thine  azured  mountains  soar, 

Jersey  land,  my  Jersey  land! 
Hill-top  and  vale,  low-lying  plain, 
Thy  pines,  thy  streams  with  murmuring  strain, 
These  ne'er  will  let  thy  beauty  wane, 

Jersey  land,  my  Jersey  land! 

[232] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


On  fame's  bright  roll  thy  name  is  found, 

Jersey  land,  my  Jersey  land! 
Thine  every  rood  is  hallowed  ground, 

Jersey  land,  my  Jersey  land! 
At  Trenton  and  on  Princeton's  field 
On  Monmouth's  plain,  with  valor  steeled, 
Thy  sons  their  lives  for  freedom  sealed, 

Jersey  land,  my  Jersey  land! 

Minerva  holds  thee  near  her  heart, 

Jersey  land,  my  Jersey  land! 
Their  gifts  the  sacred  Nine  impart, 

Jersey  land,  my  Jersey  land! 
Fair  wisdom's  sons  thou  lov'st  to  call 
From  wayside  shrine  or  college  hall; 
Thine  altar  fires  bid  welcome  all, 

Jersey  land,  dear  Jersey  land! 

Anonymous. 


OUR  WHOLE  COUNTRY. 

By  love  of  freedom  led, 
Our  Pilgrim  Fathers  fled 

Over  the  sea. 

Here  long  they  toiled  and  prayed, 
Here  deep  foundations  laid, 
Here  they  a  stronghold  made 

For  Liberty. 

For  Liberty  they  fought, 

And  with  their  life-blood  bought 

Our    native    land; 
Where  now  in  peace  we  dwell, 
Low  grassy  mounds  still  tell 
Where  many  a  hero  fell 

With  sword  in  hand. 

Led  by  that  noble  band, 
Millions  from  every  land 

Have  hither  come 
For  some  exalted  end 
Doth  God  his  children  send, 
And  here  all  nations  blend 

In  our  fair  home. 


[233] 


*  *   *   * 

Nourished  by  Freedom,  here 
Shall  a  new  race  appear; 

From  many,   one; 
Beneath  her  ample  shield, 
Upon  this  wide-spread  field 
Shall  ancient  strifes  be  healed, 

New  life  begun. 

Here  will  the  Lord  make  plain 
Things  men  have  sought  in  vain, 

Since  time's  first  morn; 
Called  forth  by  Freedom's  might, 
Here  first  shall  see  the  light 
Vast  powers  for  man  and  right, 

As  yet  unborn. 

*  *   *   * 

In  the  titanic  struggle  yet  to  be 
When  right  and  Ught  and  human  liberty 
With  powers  of  greed  and  tyranny  engage 
In  mortal  combat,  final  war  to  wage — 
A  world-wide  struggle  coming-on  apace 
In  many  a  waking  land  and  longing  rac^- 
My  Country,  do  thou  make  a  valiant  fight, 
And  for  the  people's  cause  put  forth  thy  might, 
And  may  the  Lord  of  Hosts  who  made  thee  free 
Make  thee,  great  Guardian  of  Liberty, 
To  lead  the  nations,  marching  in  the  van, 
The  fearless  Champion  of  the  Rights  of  Man 

Henry  Nehemiah  Dodge. 

Stanzas  selected   by  permission  from  Christus  Victor,   copyright; 
1901,  by  Henry  N.  Dodge, 


[2.341 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 
BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  AUTHORS. 


Andre. — John  Andre  was  born  in  London  in  1751,  served  in  the 
British  army  with  the  rank  of  major,  was  the  British  agent  in  negotiating 
treason  with  Benedict  Arnold,  was  arrested  as  a  spy  at  Tarrytown  on 
September  21,  1780,  and  was  hanged  at  Tappan,  N.  Y.,  on  October  2nd. 
His  remains  were  afterward  removed  to  England  and  buried  in  West 
minster  Abbey.  

Archer. — Henry  Archer  came  from  England  to  America  in  1778 
and  joined  the  Continental  Army  as  a  volunteer.  Critics  declare  that  his 
toast  The  Volunteer  Boys  for  Old  Jersey's  Defense  is  the  best  convivial 
song  produced  during  the  Revolutionary  war. 

We  quote  from  the  Pennsylvania  Packet  under  date  of  October, 
1778:  "Philadelphia — Friday  last,  arrived  in  this  city  Henry  Archer, 
Esq.  This  young  gentleman  has  been  educated  at  a  military  school  in 
England  where  he  owned  a  handsome  fortune  which  he  has  lately  sold  in 
order  to  embark  as  a  volunteer  in  the  American  army." 


Bevier. — Louis  Bevier,  Jr.,  A.  M.,  Ph.  D.,  is  a  descendant  of  Louis 
Bevier,  a  Huguenot  who  settled  in  New  York  state  in  1665  and  was  one 
of  the  twelve  patentees  of  the  New  Paltz  Palatinate.  He  graduated  from 
Rutgers  college  in  1878,  and  then  studied  for  three  years  at  Johns  Hop 
kins.  After  traveling  and  studying  in  Europe,  he  became  an  instructor 
in  Modern  Languages  at  Rutgers,  and  in  1893  was  elected  Professor  of 
Greek. 


Branson. — Shortly  after  the  close  of  the  Revolution,  a  versified 
epitome  of  the  leading  events  of  the  war,  consisting  of  twelve  cantos  and 
entitled  The  Columbiad,  was  published  by  an  author  who  signed  himself 
A  New-Jersey  Farmer.  The  brochure  contains  I-IV  and  1-46  pages. 
The  authorship  is  attributed  to  John  Branson,  of  Haddonfield,  N.  J. 


Bridges. — Robert  Bridges  was  born  in  Pennsylvania,  and  gradu 
ated  from  Princeton  in  1879.  He  is  a  journalist  and  litterateur  of  New 
York  City  and  formerly  wrote  under  the  penname  of  Droch. 


Carleton — Will  Carleton  was  born  in  Michigan  in  1845  and  graduat 
ed  at  Hillsdale  college  in  1869.  He  is  editor  of  the  magazine  Everywhere 
published  in  Brooklyn.  His  poems  are  largely  devoted  to  the  humor  and 
pathos  of  American  rural  life.  Betsy  and  I  Are  Out  is  probably  his  most 
popular  poem.  The  titles  of  his  books  are  Farm  Ballads.  Farm  Legends, 
Centennial  Rhymes,  Farm  Festivals  and  City  Ballads. 

Cloud. — Virginia  Woodward  Cloud,  author  of  the  Ballad  of  Sweet 
P,  was  born  at  Baltimore,  Md.  She  is  a  writer  of  stories,  poems  and 
dramatic  verse.  Some  of  her  poems  were  collected  and  published  by 
Richard  G.  Badger  and  Company,  under  the  title  A  Reed  by  the  River. 

Collins. — A  volume  of  poems  on  Irish  themes  was  written  by  Wil 
liam  Collins  and  published  in  New  York  in  1875  under  the  title  Ballads, 
Songs  and  Poems. 

[235] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Cooper. — John  Cooper  was  a  prominent  and  influential  patriot  of 
Gloucester  county.  He  was  born  near  Woodbury  in  1729  and  died  in 
that  city  in  1785  in  a  colonial  mansion  which  he  himself  had  built  and 
which  is  still  standing  nearly  opposite  the  court-house. 

In  1775  he  became  a  member  of  the  Gloucester  county  Committee 
of  Correspondence,  a  delegate  to  the  New  Jersey  Provincial  Congress,  and 
the  Treasurer  of  West  Jersey.  At  the  first  election  held  under  the  Con 
stitution  of  1776,  he  was  chosen  by  the  people  of  his  county  as  a  member 
of  the  Legislative  Council,  that  is,  of  the  upper  house  of  the  Legislature 
now  called  the  State  Senate. 

In  1779  he  joined  Governor  Livingston  and  seven  others  in  the 
relief  of  the  New  Jersey  Brigade  stationed  at  Elizabeth,  by  requesting  the 
Treasurer  to  furnish  the  troops  with  clothing,  and  guaranteeing  the  pay 
ment  of  seven  thousand  pounds,  should  the  legislature  make  no  provision 
for  that  purpose.  The  legislature  finally  did  its  duty,  but  the  guarantee 
showed  that  John  Cooper  was  one  of  those  who  in  darkest  hours  were 
willing  to  sacrifice  all  in  the  cause  of  freedom.  After  the  war  he  was 
Presiding  Judge  of  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas. 

It  was  by  virtue  of  his  office  as  a  member  of  the  state  legislature 
that  Mr.  Cooper  could  issue  passes  that  would  be  honored  by  the  Jersey 
militia. 

Mrs.  Ladd,  a  rich  Quakeress,  whose  maiden  name  had  been  Han 
nah  Mickle,  was  a  widow,  and  at  least  sixty  years  old;  but  Mr.  Cooper's 
gallantry  was  equal  to  the  occasion  and  so  he  describes  her  as  a  lady  of 
about  thirty-three,  such  poetic  license  being  under  the  circumstances 
clearly  justifiable. 


Crane. — Rev.  Oliver  Crane,  D.  D.,  LL.  D.,  a  descendant  of  Jasper 
Crane  who  was  one  of  the  founders  of  Newark,  was  born  in  1822  at  Mont- 
clair,  N.  J.,  and  died  in  1896.  Having  graduated  at  Yale  in  1845,  he 
taught  for  one  year  in  Girard's  boarding-school  at  Bordentown,  N.  J., 
and  there  composed  his  poem  The  Delaware.  Having  studied  theology 
at  Andover  and  at  Union,  he  sailed  in  1848  for  Syria  where  he  labored 
as  a  missionary  for  five  years.  He  returned  on  account  of  his  wife's  ill 
health  and  engaged  in  regular  pastoral  work;  but  in  1860  he  went  again 
to  the  foreign  field  and  stayed  three  years.  Coming  home  again  he  took 
charge  of  a  church  at  Carbondale,  Pa.,  but  resigned  in  1869  and  devoted 
the  remainder  of  his  life  to  literary  pursuits.  He  translated  Virgil's 
Aeneid  into  English  dactylic  hexameter. 

He  published  in  1888  a  collection  of  his  verses  in  a  volume  entitled 
Minto  and  Other  Poems. 


Davis. — John  Davis  was  an  Englishman.  He  was  a  novelist  and 
a  translator  of  military  histories.  He  became  a  confirmed  traveler, 
making  his  first  voyage  in  1787  to  India  and  visiting  the  United  States  in 
1798-1802.  He  soon  came  to  America  again  and  composed  his  Ode  to  the 
Raritan  during  the  winter  of  1804-5  while  visiting  his  friend  Mr.  George 
at  Raritan,  near  Somerville,  N.  J.  He  sent  the  Ode  to  England  and  it 
was  published  in  the  London  Review,  May,  1806. 


Davy. — Sarah  M.  Davy,  daughter  of  Joseph  Davy  and  a  descend 
ant  of  Ann  Halstead  of  Revolutionary  fame,  was  born  at  Newark,  N.  J. 
She  attended  Antioch  college  when  Horace  Mann  was  president  of  that 

[236] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


institution.  Miss  Davy  has  studied  and  practised  stenography  in  office 
and  court -room;  she  has  also  studied  law  and  has  been  admitted  to  the 
bar. 


Day. — Thomas  Fleming  Day  is  the  son  of  Prof.  Edward  H.  Day 
of  the  Normal  college,  New  York  city.  He  was  born  in  Somersetshire, 
England,  in  1861  and  came  to  the  United  States  in  1868.  He  is  a  popular 
writer  on  all  yachting  matters  and  since  1895  has  been  the  editor  of  the 
Rudder,  a  yachting  monthly  in  New  York  city. 

The  Coasters  is  from  his  Songs  of  Sea  and  Sail. 


Dodge. — Henry  Nehemiah  Dodge,  A.  M.,  Litt.  D.,  is  the  son  of  Dr. 
Joseph  S.  and  Julia  A.  Dodge.  He  was  born  in  New  York  city,  in  1843, 
but  has  resided  at  Morristown,  N.  J.,  since  1870. 

He  attended  Columbia  College  two  years,  and  Hamilton  College 
one  year;  ill-health  prevented  his  graduation,  but  later  he  traveled  ex 
tensively  in  Europe  witfc  Prof.  Henry  Drisler  of  Columbia  College,  study 
ing  Roman  antiquities  while  in  Italy.  He  graduated  from  the  College 
of  Physicians  and  Surgeons  in  1868,  and  from  the  Philadelphia  Dental 
College  in  1869. 

He  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of  poetry:  Christus  Victor  issued 
in  1901  by  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  and  the  Mystery  of  the  West  issued  by 
Richard  G.  Badger. 

His  verses  on  Washington's  Headquarters  were  read  on  February 
22,  1895,  before  the  Washington  Association  of  New  Jersey. 


Drummond. — Sara  King  Wiley,  daughter  of  William  H.  Wiley, 
married  Frederic  L.  Drummond.  She  resides  at  East  Orange,  N.  J. 
She  is  the  author  of  Poems  Lyric  and  Dramatic :  Cromwell,  a  Play,  pub 
lished  in  1900  by  John  Wiley  and  Sons. 


English. — Thomas  Dunn  English,  M.  D.,  LL.  D.,  was  born  at 
Philadelphia  in  1819;  graduated  in  medicine  from  the  University  of  Penn 
sylvania  in  1839,  and  settled  at  Fort  Lee,  Bergen  county,  N.  J.,  in  1856, 
but  removed  to  Newark,  N.  J.,  in  1878,  where  he  lived  until  his  death  on 
April  2,  1902.  He  was  a  prolific  writer  of  novels,  plays  and  short  stories, 
and  was  widely  known  as  the  author  of  the  ballad  Ben  Bolt.  He  wrote 
two  volumes  of  patriotic  poems,  American  Ballads  and  The  Boy's  Book 
of  Battle  Lyrics,  both  published  by  Harper  and  Brothers. 

Dr.  English  served  two  terms  in  the  New  Jersey  legislature  and 
two  terms  in  Congress.  He  was  a  personal  friend  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe, 
Nathaniel  P.  Willis  and  George  P.  Morris.  A  volume  of  Dr.  English's 
Reminiscences  has  been  prepared  by  Rev.  Arthur  H.  Noll,  Sewanee,  Tenn. 
The  following  extract  seems  to  relate  to  the  John  Berry  mentioned 
in  Dr.  English's  poem,  Jack  the  Regular,  and  is  taken  from  a  letter  written 
on  June  7,  1778,  by  Peter  Wilson  to  Rev.  Dirck  Romeyn  of  New  Barba- 
does,  Bergen  county,  N.  J.;  which  extract  has  been  kindly  furnished  by 
Miss  Maud  E.  Johnson,  of  the  library  of  the  New  Jersey  State  Historical 
Society. 

Mr.  Wilson,  referring  to  the  action  of  the  New  Jersey  legislature, 
says:  "I  have  obtained  a  Resolution  in  favor  of  the  Non-Commissioned 
Officers  &  Privates  who  were  concerned  in  taking  John  the  R.egular,  for 

[237] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


drawing  1000  dollars.  Our  Treasury  is  exhausted  and  our  finances  low, 
or  else  they  might  have  expected  3  times  the  sum;  it  is  only  an  acknowledg 
ment  of  their  Zeal,  Bravery  &  Activity." 


Evans. — Rev.  Nathaniel  Evans  lived  at  Haddonfield,  N.  J.  His 
poem  Gloucester  Spring  was  published  in  1772  in  a  volume  edited  by 
William  Smith,  and  was  reprinted  in  1844  by  Isaac  Mickle  in  his  Remi 
niscences  of  Old  Gloucester. 

Numerous  bubbling  springs  once  existed  within  and  near  Glou 
cester  City  and  were  severally  known  as  the  Mineral  spring,  the  Indian 
spring  and  so  forth;  but  most  of  them  have  now  been  filled  in.  Hon. 
John  Redfield,  a  well-informed  antiquarian,  stated  that  the  Gloucester 
Spring  celebrated  in  this  poem  was  on  the  Harrison  estate  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  on  the  south  branch  of  Newton  Creek. 


Fischer. — William  H.  Fischer  was  born  at  Bass  River,  Burlington 
county,  N.  J.,  in  1867,  but  has  resided  at  Toms  River  since  early  boy 
hood.  He  became  part  owner  of  the  New  Jersey  Courier  in  1891  and  sole 
owner  and  editor  in  1896.  He  is  fond  of  historical  research  and  contribu 
ted  many  chapters  to  the  Cyclopedia  of  Biography  of  Ocean  County. 


Folsom. — Rev.  Joseph  Fulford  Folsom  is  the  pastor  of  a  church  in 
Newark.  He  was  born  at  Bloomfield,  N.  J.,  and  is  a  descendant  of  John 
Folsom,  an  early  settler  of  Exeter,  N.  H.  He  is  the  recording  secretary 
of  the  New  Jersey  Historical  Society,  and  writes  occasional  articles  on 
antiquarian  and  historical  subjects. 


Ford. — The  verses  On  An  Old  Mirror,  signed  Y.  F.  and  attached 
to  a  looking-glass  on  exhibition  in  Washington's  Headquarters  at  Morris- 
town,  N.  J.,  were  written  by  Theodosia  (Barlow)  Ford,  afterward  of 
Augusta,  Georgia.  Her  husband,  the  Rev.  Edward  E.  Ford,  was  born 
in  the  Washington  Headquarters,  and  was  a  great  grandson  of  the  Col. 
Jacob  Ford,  Jr.,  who  built  and  owned  that  mansion. 


Freneau. — Philip  Freneau,  of  Monmouth  county,  New  Jersey, 
was  the  Poet  of  the  American  Revolution,  a  title  which  he  richly  deserves 
not  only  on  account  of  the  quantity  and  high  quality  of  his  verse  in  gen 
eral,  but  especially  on  account  of  the  patriotic  songs  and  satires  with 
which  he  aroused  the  zeal  and  cheered  the  hearts  of  his  desponding  coun 
trymen.  As  a  commencement  exercise  on  graduating  from  Princeton  in 
1771  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  he  and  a  classmate  composed  and  delivered 
a  dialogue  in  blank  verse  on  The  Rising  Glory  of  America. 

He  came  out  strongly  in  favor  of  war  and  independence  in  some 
satires  which  he  wrote  against  the  British  as  early  as  1775. 

Having  spent  a  couple  of  years  in  the  West  Indies,  he  returned 
and  took  up  his  pen  again  in  behalf  of  the  colonies  during  1778  and  1779. 
He  was  captured  at  sea  in  May,  1780,  and  confined  for  seven  weeks  in 
the  prison-hulks  in  New  York  harbor.  This  experience,  which  he  de 
scribed  in  The  British  Prisonships,  aroused  his  indignation  to  a  white 
heat  and  he  continued  to  be  a  sturdy  British-hater  during  his  long  life. 
He  wrote  poem  after  poem,  all  full  of  jeers  and  scorn  and  satire  on  King 
George,  and  the  British  statesmen,  generals,  and  editors,  and  the  British 

[238J 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


•army  and  navy,  and  on  all  their  doings;  and  especially  did  he  pour  out 
his  wrath  on  the  tories. 

No  matter  how  dark  things  seemed  or  what  disasters  befell  the 
American  cause,  every  poem  of  Freneau's  was  full  of  absolute  confidence 
in  final  victory.  His  words  of  cheer  did  much  to  encourage  the  Conti 
nental  soldiers  in  camp  and  field. 

A  few  of  his  short  poems  such  as  The  Wild  Honeysuckle  and  The 
Indian  Burying-Ground,  are  gems  and  rank  with  the  best  in  American 
literature;  but  Freneau's  greatest  glory  is  that  his  verses  expressed  the 
hopes  and  feelings  of  the  American  people  during  that  great  struggle 
which  resulted  in  our  national  independence. 

After  the  war  he  became  a  warm  personal  friend  and  political 
supporter  of  Thomas  Jefferson.  He  was  a  newspaper  editor  both  in 
New  York  city  and  in  Philadelphia;  and  he  also  published  for  one  year 
the  New  Jersey  Chronicle  at  his  own  home  in  Monmouth  county.  When 
not  engaged  in  editorial  duties,  he  turned  his  attention  to  commerce  and 
made  many  voyages  to  the  West  Indies,  and  at  least  one  trip  to  Cal 
cutta,  India. 

Philip  was  the  son  of  Pierre  Freneau  and  the  grandson  of  Andrew 
Freneau,  a  Huguenot  who  came  to  America  in  1707.  He  was  born  in 
New  York  city  January  2,  1752  (O.  S.),  and  removed  to  Monmouth  county 
in  1762.  He  married  Eleanor,  daughter  of  Samuel  Forman,  and  left  four 
daughters.  Eleanor  was  a  sister  of  Gen.  -Jonathan  Forman  and  a  cousin 
of  Gen.  David  Forman.  Philip  lived  to  be  eighty  years  of  age;  he  lost 
his  way  one  afternoon  while  crossing  a  swamp  during  a  blinding  snow- 
•storm  and  froze  to  death  December  18,  1832. 


Fuller. — Howard  Newton  Fuller,  author  of  On  the  Banks  of  the 
Old  Raritan,  was  born  at  New  Baltimore,  N.  Y.,  in  1853,  and  graduated 
from  Rutgers  college  in  1874.  He  is  the  son  of  William  A.  and  Lydia 
(Swezey)  Fuller,  and  a  grandson  of  Jonathan  Dickinson,  the  first  Presi 
dent  of  Princeton  College.  He  is  comptroller  of  the  city  of  Albany,  N.  Y., 
a  member  of  the  Sons  of  the  Revolution,  and  a  Trustee  of  Rutgers  College. 


Gates. — Mary  C.  Bishop  was  the  daughter  of  William  S.  Bishop 
of  Rochester,  N.  Y.  In  1873  she  married  (at  Orange,  N.  J.,  at  the  home 
of  her  brother,  Rev.  George  S.  Bishop,  D.  D.,  then  pastor  of  the  Brick 
Church)  Merrill  Edwards  Gates,  afterward  President  of  Rutgers  Col 
lege,  1882-1890,  and  of  Amherst  College,  1890-1899. 

Mrs.  Gates  began  to  write  editorially  for  the  Sunday  School  Times 
while  she  resided  at  New  Brunswick,  N.  J.  Her  poems  appeared  in  many 
of  our  best  magazines  and  religious  papers.  She  also  published  articles 
upon  literary,  social  and  religious  themes. 

After  Dr.  Gates  resigned  the  presidency  of  Amherst,  save  for  a 
year  of  foreign  travel,  they  resided  in  Washington,  D.  C.,  where  Mrs. 
Gates  died  December  17,  1905.  A  volume  of  her  verse  and  another  of 
her  prose  are  being  edited  for  publication. 


Gilder. — Richard  Watson  Gilder,  editor,  poet  and  reformer,  was 
born  at  Bordentown,  N.  J.,  He  was  associate  editor  of  Scribner's  Month 
ly,  and  has  been  editor-in-chief  of  the  Century  Magazine  since  1881. 

[239] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Guest. — Moses  Guest  was  born  about  1765  at  New  Brunswick, 
N.  J.  He  served  in  the  Middlesex  militia,  first  as  ensign  and  afterward 
as  captain.  During  Col.  Simcoe's  expedition  in  1779,  Guest  with  a  de 
tachment  of  thirty-five  men  who  had  assembled  at  the  Landing  bridge 
was  sent  toward  Millstone  to  ascertain  the  whereabouts  of  the  raiders. 
He  had  scarcely  started  before  he  learned  that  the  British  horsemen  were 
close  at  hand  and  riding  toward  him.  The  militia,  firing  from  ambush, 
killed  Simcoe's  horse  and  captured  the  Colonel  himself.  In  1817,  Cap 
tain  Guest  with  his  wife  and  four  of  his  children  went  west  in  a  wagon  and 
settled  at  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  where  five  years  later  he  published  his  Poems 
on  Several  Occasions  to  which  he  annexed  a  Journal  describing  some  of 
his  travels. 


Harte. — Bret  Harte,  who  was  born  at  Albany,  N.  Y.,  in  1839  and 
died  abroad  in  1902,  was  a  distinguished  author  of  marked  originality. 
The  scene  of  his  historical  novel  Thankful  Blossom  is  laid  at  Morristown 
in  1779. 


Herbert. — Henry  William  Herbert  was  born  in  London  in  1807, 
graduated  at  the  University  of  Oxford  ,  emigrated  to  New  Jersey,  teught 
the  classics  at  Newark  in  1830,  devoted  himself  to  various  kinds  of  liter 
ary  work,  and  died  in  1858,  having  spent  the  last  twelve  years  of  his  life 
at  the  Cedars  near  Newark,  N.  J.  He  edited  magazines,  translated 
French  novels  and  wrote  many  historical  works  and  semi-historical  ro 
mances;  but  his  popularity  rests  mainly  on  his  books  on  sporting  and 
game  which  were  published  under  the  penname  of  Frank  Forrester  by 
the  Orange  Judd  Company.  He  wrote  a  series  of  American  Historical 
Ballads;  an  elegant  edition  of  which  was  edited  by  Morgan  Herbert  and 
published  in  1887. 


Hopkinson. — Francis  Hopkinson,  of  Bordentown,  was  one  of  the 
New  Jersey  delegates  to  the  Continental  Congress  and  a  Signer  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence.  He  was  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1737 
and  died  there  in  1791.  In  1768  he  married  Ann  Borden  to  whom  he 
had  addressed  two  of  his  songs,  To  Delia  and  Delia,  Pride  of  Borden's 
Hill.  After  his  marriage  he  removed  to  Bordentown,  N.  J.,  and  made 
that  village  his  permanent  home. 

His  political  writings  were  very  effective  in  creating  a  public  senti 
ment  in  favor  of  independence  and  in  support  of  the  war.  His  Battle  of 
the  Kegs  is  said  to  have  been  worth  a  thousand  men  to  the  patriotic  cause. 
He  threw  his  whole  influence  also  in  favor  of  the  adoption  of  the  Consti 
tution  of  the  United  States;  his  song  The  New  Roof  should  be  read  in  this 
connection.  He  became  a  Judge  of  Admiralty.  He  left  a  son  Joseph 
who  in  1798  wrote  the  national  song  Hail  Columbia. 


How. — Henry  Kollock  How,  whose  father,  the  Rev.  Samuel  B. 
How,  was  for  many  years  pastor  of  the  First  Reformed  church  at  New 
Brunswick,  N.  J.,  was  graduated  from  Rutgers  College  in  1842.  Having 
learned  the  drug  business  under  the  instruction  of  Mr.  Charles  D.  Deshler, 
he  became  an  apothecary  and  kept  a  drug  store,  first  at  New  Brunswick 
and  later  at  Trenton.  In  the  course  of  a  few  years  however,  he  gave  up 
the  business  and  retired  to  his  home  at  Franklin  Park,  N.  J.,  where  he 
died  in  1873. 

[2401 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


In  1856,  he  published  The  Battle  of  Trenton  in  a  pamphlet  of  six 
teen  pages  from  the  press  of  J.  Terhune,  31  Albany  street,  a  poem  written 
for  the  definite  and  express  purpose  of  creating  a  public  sentiment  in  sup 
port  of  the  proposition  to  erect  a  monument  in  commemoration  of  that 
famous  victory.  Mr.  How  was  also  the  author  of  A  Tribute  to  Rutgers, 
which  he  read  at  the  one-hundredth  anniversary  of  the  founding  of  his 
Alma  Mater. 


Howell. — Richard  Howell  was  born  at  Newark,  Del.,  in  1754  and 
died  at  Trenton,  N.  J.,  in  1803.  He  lived  in  Cumberland  county,  N.  J., 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution  and  was  one  of  the  forty  men  who  dis 
guised  themselves  as  Indians  and  seized  the  tea  which  had  been  landed 
from  the  Grayhound  and  stored  at  Greenwich,  and  burned  it  in  the  streets. 

After  serving  as  captain  in  Col.  William  Maxwell's  brigade,  he  re 
signed  from  the  army ;  but  he  continued  to  serve  his  country  in  a  far  more 
dangerous  position,  being  employed  by  Gen.  Washington  in  the  secret 
service.  After  the  war,  he  practised  law  in  Cumberland  county.  He 
was  Governor  of  New  Jersey  from  1792  to  1801,  and  during  his  adminis 
tration  he  wrote  two  songs,  both  of  which  are  included  in  this  volume. 
He  wrote  the  Welcome  to  Washington  which  was  sung  in  Trenton  at  the 
triumphal  arch  erected  in  honor  of  the  President-elect;  and  he  wrote 
the  Jersey  Blue  while  marching  to  suppress  the  Whisky  Insurrection. 


Hunter. — Eleanor  A.  Hunter  was  born  at  Goshen,  Indiana.  She 
is  a  granddaughter  of  Rhoda  Farrand,  the  heroine  of  the  poem  published 
in  this  volume  under  that  title.  She  has  written  a  number  of  books  pub 
lished  by  the  American  Tract  Society  including  Stories  Told  by  a  Doll, 
Wiscasset  Stories,  Talks  to  Boys,  Talks  to  Girls,  and  Children  and  the 
Home. 


Irving. — Washington  Irving,  the  distinguished  author,  was  a  name 
sake  of  the  first  President  of  the  United  States.  His  Life  of  George 
Washington  is  regarded  by  many  as  the  greatest  biography  of  America's 
greatest  man.  Cockloft  Hall,  an  old  mansion  still  standing  at  the  corner 
of  Mount  Pleasant  avenue  and  Gouverneur  street,  was  Irving's  residence 
during  the  time  he  resided  in  Newark,  N.  J. 

Irving's  poem,  The  Falls  of  the  Passaic,  is  based  on  a  legend  con 
cerning  the  origin  of  the  Falls  which  was  current  among  the  Indians. 


Janvier. — Francis  DeHaes  Janvier  wrote  The  Old  Stone  Church 
for  the  celebration  in  1880  of  the  bi-centennial  anniversary  of  the  church 
at  Fairfield,  Cumberland  county,  N.  J. 

A  volume  of  Mr.  Janvier's  poems  relating  to  the  Civil  War  was 
published  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  and  Company,  in  1866,  under  the  title  of 
Patriotic  Poems. 


Kinney. — Elizabeth  Clementine  Dodge  was  the  daughter  of  David 
L.  Dodge,  and  a  sister  of  William  E.  Dodge,  the  philanthropist.  She 
was  born  in  New  York  City  in  1810,  and  died  at  Summit,  N.  J.,  in  1889. 
In  1830  she  married  Major  Edmund  Burke  Stedman.  The  poet  and 
critic,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  was  their  son.  Mrs.  Stedman  after 
ward  became  the  wife  of  William  Burnet  Kinney,  proprietor  of  the 

[2411 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Newark  Daily  Advertiser.   Her  work  as  a  writer  of  prose  and  poetry  has 
been  highly  commended. 

An  edition  of  the  collected  Poems  of  Elizabeth  C.  Kinney  was 
published  by  Kurd  and  Houghton,  New  York,  1867.  Her  fine  lyrical 
poem  Divident  Hill  was  written  at  the  suggestion  of  William  A.  White- 
head,  the  historian,  and  was  printed  in  the  Proceedings  commemorativt 
of  the  Settlement  of  Newark,  N.  J.,  May,  1866. 


Livingston. — William  Livingston  was  the  first  Governor  of  New 
Jersey.  His  administration  began  in  August,  1776,  and  continued  until 
his  death  in  1790,  a  period  of  nearly  fourteen  years.  Ke  made  an  excel 
lent  war-governor,  bold,  active  and  energetic.  He  was  born  in  1723, 
graduated  from  Yale  in  1741,  and  became  prominent  as  an  editor  and  a 
lawyer  in  New  York  city.  He  removed  to  Elizabeth,  N.  J.,  and  built 
for  himself  a  mansion  still  known  as  Liberty  Hall.  He  was  a  member 
of  the  First  Continental  Congress.  His  political  writings  against  the 
British  and  Tories  were  so  aggressive  and  bitter  that  he  became  to  them 
an  object  of  special  enmity. 

William  Livingston  in  the  year  1747  at  the  age  of  twenty-four 
had  written  and  published  a  poem  of  about  seven  hundred  lines  entitled 
Philosophic  Solitude,  or  The  Choice  of  a  Rural  Life.  In  taking  up  the 
poet's  pen  again  in  1778  after  an  interval  of  thirty-one  years,  he  alludes 
in  the  opening  paragraph  of  To  His  Excellency  General  Washington  to 
the  poetry  written  by  him  in  his  earler  days. 

Moore. — Captain  James  Moore  of  Princeton  was  a  tanner  and 
currier  by  trade  and  lived  on  the  street  which  still  bears  his  name.  He 
was  a  Ruling  Elder  in  the  church  from  1807  until  his  death  on  November 
29,  1832,  at  the  age  of  eighty  years.  He  was  an  active  patriot  during  the 
Revolution.  At  the  battle  of  Princeton,  when  the  British  grenadiers 
sought  refuge  in  the  college  building,  Captain  Moore,  aided  by  a  few  of 
his  men,  burst  open  the  door  and  called  on  them  to  surrender,  which  they 
instantly  did.  His  grave  in  the  Princeton  cemetery  is  marked  by  a 
monument. 

The  original  manuscript  of  The  Jerseyman's  Resolve,  in  Captain 
Moore's  handwriting,  is  still  extant. 


Morford. — Henry  Morford  was  born  at  New  Monmouth,  N.  J., 
in  1823,  and  died  in  1881.  He  was  the  founder  and  editor  of  the  New 
Jersey  Standard,  a  newspaper  published  at  Matawan  in  Monmouth 
county.  In  1859  he  published  a  collection  of  his  poems  under  the  title 
Rhymes  of  Twenty  Years.  His  prose  works  include  one  book  of  humor, 
two  books  of  travel,  and  seven  novels.  Another  collection  of  his  verse, 
Rhymes  of  an  Editor,  appeared  in  1873;  and  best  of  all,  in  the  centennial 
year  at  Philadelphia,  appeared  that  delightful  ballad  of  his,  The  Spur 
of  Monmouth;  or  Washington  in  Arms. 


Orne — Caroline  Frances  Orne  resided  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  and 
published  two  volumes  of  poems,  Sweet  Auburn  and  Mount  Auburn, 
and  Morning  Songs  of  American  Freedom.  Her  poem  Washington  at 
Princeton  was  published  in  Graham's  Magazine,  February,  1856. 

Palmer . — John  Williamson  Palmer,  M.  D.,  was  born  in  Baltimore, 
Md.,  in  1826,  and  died  there  in  1906.  He  was  an  editor  of  the  Century 

[242] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Dictionary  and  also  of  the  Standard  Dictionary.  He  was  the  author  of 
Old  and  New,  Up  and  Down  the  Irrawaddi,  and  After  His  Kind.  Among 
his  ballads,  which  are  few  in  number,  but  high  in  merit,  are  For  Charlie's 
Sake,  The  Maryland  Battalion,  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way,  The  Fight  at 
San  Jacinto,  and  Theodosia  Burr',  these  have  been  gathered  into  a  volume 
published  by  the  Funk  and  Wagnalls  Company. 

The  Maryland  Battalion  was  read  at  the  unveiling  of  the  monu 
ment  to  Maryland's  Four  Hundred  in  Prospect  Park,  Brooklyn,  on 
August  27,  1895,  but  it  was  not  written  for  that  occasion. 


Peck. — Rev.  Harold  Page  Peck,  the  author  of  Old  Nassau,  was  an 
earnest  and  successful  pastor  and  filled  charges  as  follows:  1865-68  at 
Beaver  Dam,  Wis.;  1869-70  at  Marenquo,  111.;  1870-75  at  Lincoln,  Neb.; 
1875-81  at  Salem,  Ore.;  1881-83  at  Merced,  Cal.;  and  then  in  Washing 
ton  territory  where  he  died  in  1884. 


Pennypacker. — Isaac  Rusling  Pennypacker  of  Haddonfield,  N.  J., 
was  born  at  Phoenixville,  Pa.  He  served  for  a  number  of  years  on  the 
editorial  staff  of  the  Philadelphia  Press  and  of  the  Philadelphia  In 
quirer.  He  has  contributed  literary  reviews  to  the  New  York  Nation, 
and  has  published  many  historical  papers,  including  a  history  of  the 
Old  Tavern-House  at  Haddonfield.  He  is  the  author  of  the  Life  of  Gen 
eral  Meade  in  the  "Great  Commanders"  series  issued  by  the  Appletons, 
and  of  Gettysburg  and  Other  Poems.  The  ode  Gettysburg  was  read  at  the 
dedication  of  the  Pennsylvania  monuments  erected  upon  that  battle 
field.  The  Jersey  Blues  was  read  before  the  Society  of  the  Cincinnati 
of  New  Jersey  at  Trenton,  February  23,  1891. 


Platt. — Charles  Davis  Platt,  of  Dover,  N.  J.,  was  born  at  Eliza 
beth  and  has  always  been  a  Jerseyman.  He  is  of  Revolutionary  stock, 
being  a  descendant  of  Deacon  Joseph  Davis  of  Bloomfield,  N.  J.,  and  also 
of  Capt.  James  McClure  of  Philadelphia  whose  certificate  of  member 
ship  in  the  Society  of  the  Cincinnati  hangs  in  the  Washington  Head 
quarters  at  Morristown. 

He  has  celebrated  in  verse  many  of  the  historic  events  that  oc 
curred  in  his  native  state,  which  poems  were  published  at  Morristown, 
N.  J.,  in  1896,  as  Ballads  of  New  Jersey  in  the  Revolution.  Every  lib 
rary  should  contain  a  copy  of  Mr.  Platt's  Ballads.  In  composing  these, 
he  has  purposely  departed  from  the  literary  style  now  in  vogue:  in  matter 
he  has  kept  very  close  to  the  original  prose  narratives;  and  in  language 
he  has  endeavored  to  use  plain  and  simple  forms  of  expression  not  inap 
propriate  to  the  life  and  times  of  that  early  period. 

The  New  Jersey  Society,  S.  A.  R.,  appreciates  Mr.  Platt's  gener 
osity  in  allowing  seven  of  his  poems  to  be  included  in  the  present  col 
lection. 


Richards. — Laura  Elizabeth  Howe,  daughter  of  Samuel  Gridley 
Howe,  and  his  wife  Julia  Ward,  married  Mr.  Henry  Richards.  They 
reside  at  Gardiner,  Me.  Mrs.  Richards  is  a  very  successful  writer  of 
juvenile  literature.  She  has  published  about  forty  books,  including 
Five  Mice  in  a  Mouse-Trap  which  appeared  in  1880,  Our  Baby's  Favorite, 
Toto's  Merry  Winter,  Captain  January  and  Queen  Hildegarde.  She  is 
a  frequent  contributor  to  the  St.  Nicholas. 

[243] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 


Roche. — James  Jeffrey  Roche  was  born  in  Ireland  in  1847  but 
when  a  child  was  taken  to  Prince  Edwards  Island  and  there  educated 
at  Charlottetown.  He  went  to  Boston,  Mass.,  in  1866  and  engaged  in 
commercial  pursuits;  but  in  1890  he  became  editor  of  the  Pilot.  Among 
his  poetical  works  are  Songs  and  Satires  and  Ballads  of  Blue  Water; 
among  his  prose  works  are  The  Fight  of  the  Armstrong  Privateer  and 
The  Filibusters. 


Sands. — Robert  Charles  Sands  was  born  in  1799  and  died  at 
Hoboken,  N.  J.,  in  1832.  From  1824  to  1830  he  was  the  editor  successive 
ly  of  three  magazines  in  New  York  city.  He  was  the  author  of  two 
metrical  works,  The  Bridal  of  Vaumond,  and  Yamoyden,  a  Tale  of  the 
Wars  of  King  Philip.  His  most  important  work  was  the  Life  and  Corre 
spondence  of  John  Paul  Jones  published  at  New  York  in  1830.  The 
Writings  of  R.  C.  Sands  in  Prose  and  Verse,  with  a  memoir  by  G.  C.  Ver- 
planck,  was  published  in  two  volumes  in  1834. 


Stedman. — Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  was  born  at  Hartford 
Conn.  He  joined  the  class  of  1853  at  Yale.  He  is  a  distinguished 
journalist,  critic  and  poet.  He  resided  for  a  time  in  Elizabeth,  N.  J., 
and  there  wrote  Fuit  Ilium.  The  title  Fuit  Ilium,  "Ilium  has  been," 
meaning  "Troy  is  a  thing  of  the  past,"  is  taken  from  verse  325  in  the  second 
book  of  Virgil's  Aeneid. 

Antiquarians  may  differ  as  to  the  identification  o[  the  colonial 
mansion  described;  but  the  undertone  of  regret  and  indignation  which 
pervades  the  poem,  tinged  as  it  is  with  a  stoical  feeling  of  helplessness, 
at  the  Juthless  destruction  of  Revolutionary  landmarks,  finds  a  lively 
response  in  the  heart  of  many  a  reader. 


Trimble. — Lucy  Raymond  Weeks  was  born  and  educated  in  New 
ark,  N.  J.,  in  which  city  her  paternal  ancestors  settled  in  1665,  coming 
from  the  eastern  coast  of  Massachusetts  where  the  family  landed  in  1635. 
She  has  been  a  facile  writer  from  early  girlhood  and  has  occasionally 
contributed  verses  and  sketches  to  magazines  and  newspapers.  She 
married  Mr.  James  M.  Trimble,  of  Montclair,  N.  J. 


Trumbull. — John  Trumbull  was  born  at  Watertown,  Conn.,  in 
1750,  and  graduated  at  Yale  in  1767  but  studied  there  as  a  post-graduate 
for  three  years.  He  studied  law  with  Samuel  Adams  at  Boston.  He 
began  the  practise  of  law  at  Hartford,  Conn.,  in  1781.  He  became  state 
attorney  and  also  served  in  the  legislature.  He  became  a  Superior  Court 
Justice  in  1801;  after  retiring  from  the  bench  in  1819  he  removed  to 
Detroit,  Mich.,  and  resided  with  his  married  daughter  until  his  death  in 
1831. 

His  famous  satirical  poem  McFingal  did  good  service  for  the  pat 
riotic  cause.  It  was  first  published  in  1774;  but  it  was  enlarged  and  re 
cast  and  published  at  Hartford,  Conn.,  in  1782.  It  has  passed  through 
more  than  thirty  editions,  Benjamin  J.  Lossing's,  which  appeared  ia 
1860,  being  the  best  for  general  use. 

This  poet  should  not  be  confused  with  his  kinsman  bearing  the 
same  name  who  was  an  artist. 

[244] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 


Van  Dyke. — Rev.  Henry  Van  Dyke  was  born  at  Germantown,  Pa. 
He  graduated  at  Princeton  in  1873  and  at  Princeton  Seminary  in  1877. 
He  has  written  many  books  on  literary  and  religious  subjects,  and  has 
been  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Princeton  University  since  1900. 
Among  his  works  are  The  Builders  and  Other  Poe ms  and  The  American 
ism  of  George  Washington. 


Ward. — Thomas  Ward,  M.  D.,  son  of  General  Thomas  Ward, 
was  born  at  Newark,  N.  J.,  in  1807  and  died  in  1873.  He  was  educated 
at  Princeton  and  at  Rutgers  Medical  college. 

A  Month  of  Freedom,  a  narrative  poem  describing  one  of  his 
vacation  trips,  was  published  by  him  anonymously  in  1837,  and  from  it 
we  have  taken  an  extract  relating  to  The  Delaware  River',  a  collection  of 
his  verses  was  published  at  New  York  in  1842  by  Wiley  &  Putnam,  en 
titled  Passaic,  a  Group  of  Poems  Touching  that  River :  with  Other  Mus 
ings,  by  Flaccus,  from  which  we  have  taken  two  poems  relating  to  the 
Revolutionary  war,  The  Martyr  and  The  Retreat  of  Seventy-Six.  At  the 
bi-centennial  celebration  of  the  founding  of  his  native  city,  held  in  May, 
1866,  he  read  a  Lyrical  Poem  on  the  Two  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the 
Settlement  of  Newark,  from  which  we  have  selected  a  few  lines  and  placed 
them  at  the  beginning  of  this  book  under  the  title  of  Our  Gallant  State. 


Whitman. — Walt  Whitman  was  born  on  Long  Island,  N.  Y.,  in 
1819.  He  was  a  printer  by  trade.  In  his  first  attempts  at  poetry  he 
followed  the  long-established  forms,  but  he  soon  devoted  himself  to  a 
style  of  marked  originality.  The  first  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass  appeared 
in  1855. 

He  has  associated  his  name  patriotically  with  the  War  for  the 
Union  in  two  ways:  first,  by  service  for  three  years  as  a  wound-dresser  in 
the  hospitals  about  Washington  city;  and  second,  by  writing  two  groups 
of  poems,  Drum-Taps  and  Memories  of  President  Lincoln,  afterward  in 
cluded  in  the  final  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass  which  was  published  in 
1892.  After  the  war,  he  was  employed  for  seven  or  eight  years  as  a  clerk 
in  the  government  offices  at  Washington;  but  having  been  stricken  with 
paralysis  in  1873,  he  removed  to  Camden,  N.  J.,  where  he  spent  the  re 
mainder  of  his  life. 


Witherspoon. — Rev.  John  Witherspoon,  a  lineal  descendant  of 
John  Knox,  was  born  in  Scotland  in  1722.  He  came  to  America  in  the 
summer  of  1768  and  on  the  17th  of  August  was  inaugurated  President  of 
Princeton  college.  He  espoused  the  cause  of  America  openly  and  bold 
ly.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Constitutional  convention  of  New  Jersey  m 
1776.  He  was  a  Signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  and  he  was 
for  six  years  one  of  the  New  Jersey  delegates  in  the  Continental  Con 
gress.  "He  was,"  says  De  Witt,  "bold  and  influential  as  an  agitator; 
active  with  his  pen  and  his  voice;  one  of  the  foremost  of  the  party  of 
action;  not  only  ready  for  a  declaration  of  independence  but  earnest 
in  his  advocacy  of  it."  He  died  at  Princeton,  N.  J.,  in  1794. 


[24*1 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 
INDEX  TO   AUTHORS. 


ANDRE,  MAJOR  JOHN 

The    Cow    Chace 101 

ANONYMOUS 

Our  Women 6 

Washington's  Victories  in  New  Jersey  (An  Extract) 11 

Battle    of   Trenton 20 

The    Jersey    Road 54 

Great    News  from  the  Jerseys 61 

Sergeant    Champe 116 

A  Vsit  to  Washington's  Headquarters,  by  D.  A.  W 137 

An  Old  Mirror;  by  Y.  F 138 

Ode  to  New  Jersey 232 

ARCHER,    HENRY 

Volunteer  Boys  for  Old  Jersey's  Defense .  .  4 

BEVIER,   LOUIS,  Jr. 

Rutgers   College   Hymn 159 

BRANSON,    JOHN 

Retreat  of  the  British  Army    (An  Extract) .  .  66 

BRIDGES,    ROBERT 

The  Towers  of  Princeton 161 

CARLETON,    WILL 

The    Longest    Battle 75 

CLOUD,   VIRGINIA   WOODWARD 

The  Ballad  of  Sweet  P 18 

COLLINS,     WILLIAM 

Molly    Maguire   at    Monmouth 80 

COOPER,    JOHN 

Hannah  Ladd's  Pass.  .  .  189 

CRANE,  OLIVER 

Rock  of  the  Passaic  Falls 133 

The    Delaware 168 

DAVIS,   JOHN 

Ode   to   the    Raritan...  158 

DAVY,    SARA    M 

Revolutionary    Scenes 197 

DAY,    THOMAS   FLEMING 

The  Coasters 179 

D.   A.    W. 

A  Visit  to  Washington's  Headquarters 137 

DODGE,    HENRY    NEHEMIAH 

Washington's    Headquarters 142 

Our  Whole  Country  (An  Extract) 233 

DRUMMOND,   SARA   WILEY 

Washington     at     Trenton 22 

The  Battle  of  Monmouth 72 

EVANS,     NATHANIEL 

The  Old  Stone  Church 187 

ENGLISH,    THOMAS    DUNN 

Assunpink  and   Princeton 48 

The  Battle  of  Monmouth 67 

The    Raid    on    Ramapo 125 

Jack    the    Regular 127 

|246] 


OF  NEW  JERSEY 
INDEX   TO   AUTHORS. 


FISCHER,    WILLIAM   H. 

Captain  Josh  Huddy 120 

On    Barnegat    Shoals 181 

The  Men  of  the  Jersey  Shore 183 

FOLSOM,    JOSEPH    FULFORD 

The  Ballad  of  Daniel  Bray 15 

Eagle    Rock 135 

FORRESTER,  FRANK;  see  Henry  W.  Herbert. 

FRENEAU,    PHILIP 

Neversink 178 

To    the    Dog    Sancho 184 

The    Country    Printer 193 

The  British  Prison-Ships 201 

Captain  Jones's  Invitation 222 

Sir    Harry's    Invitation 224 

FULLER,    HOWARD    NEWTON 

On  the  Banks  of  the  Old  Raritan 160 

GATES,    MARY   C. 

New    Jersey 2 

GILDER,    RICHARD    WATSON 

Battle  Monument 165 

GUEST,    CAPTAIN    MOSES 

Simcoe's  Raid  Up  the  Raritan  Valley 93 

Governor  Paterson's  Barge  on  the  Raritan   157 

The    Bower 282 

HARTE,    BRET 

Caldwell     of     Springfield 100 

HERBERT,    HENRY   WILLIAM 

The  Surprize  of  Trenton 23 

HOPKINSON,  FRANCIS 

v  Washington,     A    Toast 4 

'    Room  for  America 60 

4  The  Beasts,  the  Birds  and  the  Bat 64 

To   Delia 166 

Delia,   Pride  of   Borden's  Hill 167 

••  The  Battle  of  the  Kegs 173 

New    Roof 225 

HOW,    HENRY   KOLLOCK 

The   Battle   of   Trenton 30 

HOWELL,    GOVERNOR    RICHARD 

Welcome    to    Washington 227 

Jersey    Blue 230 

HUNTER,    ELEANOR    A. 

Rhoda     Farrand 148 

IRVING,    WASHINGTON 

The   Falls  of  the   Passaic 132 

JANVIER,  FRANCIS  DE  HAES 

The  Old  Stone  Church 191 

KINNEY,    ELIZABETH    CLEMENTINE 

Divident     Hill 152 

LIVINGSTON,    GOVERNOR    WILLIAM 

To  his  Excellency,   General   Washington 56 

[247] 


PATRIOTIC  POEMS 
INDEX  TO  AUTHORS. 


MOORE,   CAPTAIN    TAMES 

The  Jerseyman  s   Resolve 3 

MORFORD,    HENRY 

The    Spur    of    Monmouth 86 

Monmouth  Ten  Years  after  the  Battle 185 

ORNE,    CAROLINE   F. 

Washington  at   Princeton 5.3 

PALMER,    JOHN    WILLIAMSON 

The    Maryland    Battalion 12 

PECK,    HARLAN    PAGE 

Old     Nassau 162 

PENNYPACKER,    ISAAC    R. 

The  Jersey  Blues 200 

PLATT,    CHARLES    D. 

Washington    at    Princeton 52 

General    Mercer    at    Princeton 56 

Light-Horse  Harry  at  Paulus  Hook 91 

Parson  Caldwell  at  Springfield 98 

The    Washington    Headquarters .  .  .  . , 139 

A   Call   on    Lady    Washington 144 

Fort    Nonsense         145 

Anna    Kitchel's     Protection 147 

RICHARDS,    LAURA    ELIZABETH 

Molly     Pitcher 84 

ROCHE,  JAMES  JEFFREY 

Sergeant    Molly 82 

SANDS,  ROBERT  CHARLES 

Weehawken     122 

STEDMAN,    EDMUND    CLARENCE 

Aaron     Burr's     Wooing 123 

Fuit    Ilium 154 

TRIMBLE,    LUCY   WEEKS 

Ballad  of  the  British  Ship  Delight 190 

TRUMBULL,    JOHN 

McFingal  (An  Extract) 89 

VAN    DYKE,    HENRY 

The   Builders    (An   Extract) 163 

WARD,    THOMAS 

Our  Gallant  State  (An  Extract) 1 

The  Retreat  of  Seventy-Six 37 

The  Martyr,  Joesph  Hedden,  Jr 94 

The  Delaware  River  (An  Extract) 169 

WHITMAN,    WALT 

The    Centenarian's  Story.' 7 

Fancies   at    Navesink 177 

Patroling     Barnegat 182 

WILEY,   SARA   KING,   see   Drummond. 

WITHERSPOON,    JOHN 

Go  On  Illustrious  Chief 59 

Y.    F. 

An     Old     Mirror 138 


[248] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-32m-8,'58(5876s4)444 


